


Hidden in the Depths

by venis_envy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action, Adventure, Friendship, Love, M/M, Mystery, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-28
Updated: 2011-12-28
Packaged: 2017-11-11 19:03:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/481847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venis_envy/pseuds/venis_envy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes we know exactly what we're looking for, even if it isn't quite clear how to reach it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hidden in the Depths

**Author's Note:**

  * For [noeon (noe)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/noe/gifts).



> Many thank yous to my awesome beta (whose nickname will remain affectionately Princess Evilpants until the anonymity clause is lifted) who played frankenfic ping-pong with me over the last few days, and to noeon for the great prompty-type things (and for having similar likes and dislikes to my own). Tons of schmoozles to the mods for all the work they do (and shite they put up with) to continue this fandom tradition.  
> I've had this posted here on AO3 as just a link to the original mod post in the HD_Hols comm on LJ (too lazy to re-code and post here). But I didn't really like the way that was working out.

 

The room is dark but for the subtle glow of the orbs floating through the air around the bastion. Harry sees no movement, but as he crouches down in the shadows, he’s certain he hears a soft shudder of breath close by. Maintaining his low profile, he inches to the side, carefully slipping behind a low barricade.

There, just around the partition nearest him, he sees a soft glint of light gleaming off of pale blond hair. He peeks over the top of the stone barricade, wand aimed at his opponent.

_“Expelliarmus!”_

_“Diffinido!”_ the other man shouts over Harry’s spell.

Harry feels a tingle of magic as Malfoy’s spell rebounds off the barrier of the shield charm just across Harry’s right shoulder. Had he not been protected, it most certainly would have been a messy hit; one of which would have cost him his hold on his own wand. Regardless of not actually being able to penetrate his defences, the force of the spell still knocks Harry onto his arse, causing him to tip back and hit his head against the stone floor.

“Mother _fuck,_ Malfoy!” Harry rubs at his injury as he rights himself.

The lights brighten, illuminating the training grounds as Draco approaches.

“I told you, you can’t keep using such juvenile defences. You aren’t a child anymore, Potter,” he says as he reaches out a hand and pulls Harry to his feet. “This is exactly why they won’t put us out on the field anymore, you realise?”

“Bollocks,” Harry says, still rubbing at the back of his head. “It’s because of your ridiculous temper and take-no-prisoners attitude.” As he swishes his wand, removing their shield charms, Harry wonders—not for the first time—why the protection only works for magical attacks and not the physical ones.

"You're gormless. It's because of how soft you are; always trying to give everyone the benefit of the doubt. People are bad, Potter. The sooner you accept that, the sooner we'll be off our arses and back into the field."

Harry scowls. He’s certain he’d be perfectly fine with using brutal force in the field when necessary, but he can’t seem to convince himself to actually _try_ and hurt Draco. Even with Shield Charms in place, Harry has been known to get a few good hits through on his training partners. Not deliberately, of course, but somehow, after his defeat of Voldemort, Harry’s magic grew stronger than what he had been accustomed to.

He considers hitting Malfoy with an innocent Stinging Jinx just to show him how gormless he is, but just as the thought crosses his mind, a booming voice interrupts them.

"All right, you two love birds," Flanning calls from across the yard. "That's enough bickering. You'd think you were married."

Harry's stomach does a little flip-flop at the words of their commanding Auror. It isn't something he says to them often, but Harry finds his heart racing with even the smallest implication that he and Draco are a couple. Perhaps if he hadn't been silently pining after his partner for two years now, he would find it just as humorous as the rest of the Auror department does. Nervously, Harry chances a glance at Draco whose expression is entirely unchanging.

"What's the bloody point of all this training?" Draco asks, though Harry is certain it's a rhetorical question. "All we're ever assigned are Ministry surveillance and Improper Use of Magic."

"Watch the tone, Auror Malfoy," Flanning warns as he approaches them. "Or insubordination will earn you desk duty for the rest of your life. Part of your job is to remain fit and ready for action at any given moment."

Harry watches the short exchange silently. He can't help but wonder why Malfoy hasn't requested a new partner if he truly believes that Harry is the reason they rarely leave their office.

When Flanning has nothing more to say, he dismisses them to head back to the Ministry.

"Disgusting," Draco says when they enter their office. He wipes sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "I'm hitting the showers. It's not often we have reason to use the Ministry changing room anymore."

Harry's mouth goes dry and he swallows hard as Draco begins to unbutton his shirt.

"I think I'll wait until I get home," he replies.

"Suit yourself." Draco shrugs out of his shirt and turns to drape it over a chair, the tight muscles of his back and shoulders shifting as he moves about.  "I'm sure I can manage to cover for you if you want to leave a little early," he says.

Harry is thankful beyond measure for the opportunity to remove himself from temptation.

He Apparates home to take his shower and get ready for a typical night out at Bimini Road. It’s the familiar routine which keeps him grounded and sane. Every Friday night, he and his friends meet up at their favourite pub in Diagon Alley to drink away the aggravation of the previous workweek. When he first joined the Auror team at the Ministry, Harry would spend the greater part of his days out and about, chasing criminals and rounding up offenders. A shower was necessary to wash away the sweat and grime of a hard day’s work. Now, it was simply a means of unwinding, sluicing off a day of menial paperwork, monitoring, and letter sending.

He thinks there must be some degree of truth in what Draco said. It wasn’t until a botched raid of an illegal potions lab that Flanning stopped assigning them to field duty. Harry had seen no sense in hurting any of the wizards involved, and had nearly got himself _and_ his partner killed because of that. He likes to think that he’s learned his lesson since then, though. After six excruciatingly long days at St Mungo’s watching Draco recover from a hex that Harry could have easily countered by taking down the perpetrator, he’s certain his reaction would be much different now.

.

.

.

The warmth that greets Harry as he steps out of the cold air of Diagon Alley is so pleasant, it’s almost a relief to his overwrought muscles. William Arbius, Bimini’s barman-slash-owner, greets Harry with a cheerful “Hullo” and a slap on the back as he enters. The smell of stale smoke and Ogden’s Best permeates the air, bringing a sense of familiar comfort to Harry.

“Yer late,” the man says, waving his wand to uncap a bottle before passing it to Harry. “Y’friends’ve already been here for a bit.” He nods in the direction of their usual table; Dean, Seamus, Ginny, Ron, Hermione, Pansy and Draco, all laughing and raising their glasses into the air. “Not causin’ much of a bovver yet.”

“No worries, Arbius. I’ll keep an eye on them.”

“Ah, yer a good man ‘Arry.” He smiles brightly before turning his attention back to his previous task. The old barman knows they won’t cause trouble—they never do—but it’s his strange, roundabout way of reminding Harry that he knows who he is and what it is he does between the hours of 9 and 5.

Harry’s eye catches sight of Garin Lynch sitting at the other end of the bar. Dark hair falls over his eyes as he tilts his head to catch the words of his companion, and Harry notes that he’s actually a really good looking man; something he’s never really bothered to notice before. Lynch had been the co-owner of The Winking Kelpie, another pub that Harry and his friends had frequented before it closed its doors and they found Bimini. He’s much older than Harry—possibly early forties, Harry imagines—but, sadly, that isn’t the reason he had turned down the man’s repeated offers of a date last year.

Harry turns his attention to his group of friends, eyes immediately and unintentionally landing on Draco.

Exuding the typical authority that even off-duty Aurors do, Harry holds his head high, scanning the crowd as he makes his way across the room. It isn’t until he’s within earshot of his friends that his confidence seems to falter, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment or restrained desire, he can’t tell which. Draco’s eyes are closed now, head tilted back, his lips slightly parted as he lets out the most incredibly sexy groan. Harry’s cock stirs in his trousers and he immediately slides into the only open seat at the table, praying that no one noticed his arousal. All eyes are on Draco, though, thankfully.

At the sound of intrusion, Draco’s eyes slide open, falling on Harry. A slow smile spreads across his face and Harry feels his cheeks growing hot as he quickly diverts his gaze.

“That’s it?” Pansy ask, eyebrows drawn down as she waits for Draco to respond.

He simply shrugs one shoulder and gestures for her to get on with it.

Pansy sets her glass down, clears her throat, tilts her head back, and makes the same noise that Draco did moments before. It has decidedly less of an effect on Harry, though still makes him noticeably uncomfortable as he shifts in his seat. When she finishes mimicking Draco’s groan, Pansy adds her own sexual gasp-and-moan to the end of her demonstration.

Catcalls and whistles sound from all around their table and Harry quickly decides he needs to drink much faster to catch up to all of his friends. Thankfully, the rest of the pub is busy enough that Arbius can’t hear them from his place behind the bar.

Even Hermione seems to be in on the game. Harry is in utter shock when she begins to copy the noises of the two before her, gripping the edge of the table with her eyes closed and adding yet another uninhibited cry of mock pleasure to the end.

Ron’s eyes grow wide as he watches his wife. She smiles, cheeks slightly flushed, as the group claps and shout their approval. It isn’t a new game, but Harry thinks his friends must be absolutely pissed to be playing it so early in the evening.

Ron grabs his glass of whiskey, takes a deep breath as if to steel himself for his turn, but rather than copying the noises of the players before him, he simply throws back his drink in one swallow, slides his chair out and takes Hermione’s hand.

“I lose,” he declares. “Time for us to go.”

Hermione laughs as he pulls her to her feet, wrapping his arm around her waist and nuzzling briefly against her neck.

“Good night,” she calls back over her shoulder as Ron leads her out the door.

“It’s an unfair game, anyway,” Dean says. “Malfoy has it the easiest since he doesn’t have to remember the noises made before him.”

“We can start anywhere you’d like and I’d still win,” Draco challenges.

“Sure, he’s probably used to the practise,” Seamus says from his place across the table. “All that shower wanking he does since no one has standards low enough to fuck him.”

Draco smiles. “Or maybe my standards are just so high that my hand is the only one good enough for me.”

Harry’s attention immediately snaps to Draco’s hands. Strong fingers grip his glass as his thumb slides up, catching a drop of condensation. _Lucky bastards, those hands._

“Maddy,” Harry calls, flagging down the waitress. “I’m going to need something stronger for the night.” He chugs his beer and hands the empty bottle to the girl.

.

.

.

“Are you kidding me?” Dean squints one eye, swaying slightly as he tries to focus on the conversation at hand.

Harry leans back in his chair, the effects of the alcohol causing a sleepy relaxation to settle over him. “They’ve got Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dumbass on that smuggling case. They may as well close it now, save the Ministry a few galleons,” he says. “There’s a reason those two are usually kept on flight patrol.”

It’s come to the portion of the night where they’re all sufficiently wasted enough to complain about their respective jobs without adding undue stress. “Venting,” Pansy calls it, though she usually doesn’t have much to say about her own job as a financial advisor.

“I don’t understand,” Ginny puts in, leaning against Dean’s shoulder as she sets her drink on the table, nearly missing the edge. “Why haven’t they just given the case to you two?”

“They don’t want Harry getting his nails dirty,” Draco says without looking up from his drink.

Harry narrows a glance at his partner. “Don’t start this again,” he warns.

“What?” Draco asks, eyes wide with mock innocents. “You’re the Golden Boy. The Poster Child for Magical Law Enforcement. That’s precisely how they want your image to remain. All across the wizarding world, when parents are putting their children to bed at night, they’re thanking their lucky stars they have _you_ looking out for them.”

“Naff off, Malfoy,” Harry says before throwing back the remains of his firewhiskey.  If he wasn’t terrified of the idea of not seeing Draco every day, he would damn well put in a request for a new partner himself. He can’t stand the idea of eight hours worth of deskwork without the occasional stolen glance at his partner, though.

“You might be right,” Pansy says. “I think the Ministry is afraid to put Harry out on the field because they need his face in top form to scare off the crooks and troublemakers.”

“Oh, now my face is scary, is it?”

“It’s your eyebrows,” Seamus pipes in, sloshing his lager over the rim of his mug as he leans heavily on the table.

“My eyebrows?” Harry asks in confusion, barely resisting the urge to reach up and touch the accused offenders.

“Yes. You’ve angry eyebrows, like. Very intimidating, those,” Seamus slurs.

Harry notes with amusement that the more alcohol consumed by Seamus, the more prominent his accent becomes until most of the group can hardly understand him at all. Nevertheless, they all seem to comprehend his words just fine, laughing at his statement while Harry tries his best not to pout like a child. His eyebrows are just fine, thank you very much.

“Maggie!” Seamus calls as the scantily dressed waitress approaches. “Just the girl I’ve been waiting for. One more pint o’ the old Arthur, please.” He smiles crookedly.

“It’s Maddy, but as long as you tip well, you can call me anything you like,” she replies before sauntering away.

“I think she likes you,” Draco says as he watches her walk away. “If I’d called her the wrong name, she would have backhanded me.”

Harry gazes at Draco, watching the smooth column of his throat as he swallows down his Ogden’s. “That’s because you project arseholeism,” he says. “People can see that from a mile away.”

Draco holds up his hand acquiescently. “Years of practice.”

“Here here!” Ginny raises her glass.

Seamus sighs wistfully and goes on as if the other part of the conversation hadn’t happened at all. “Ah, Maggie’s grand. A bit of a slapper, like. Might be good for a quick shift. Sure, I think she’s got a spot for Harry. Like eh, boiy.”

“Oh shit,” Dean says when the laughter of the group finally subsides. “Seamus is bladdered. That’s our cue to leave before he catches on to the fact he’s surrounded by British blokes. Besides, his mum still doesn’t approve of him playing with Harry Potter. Bad influence and all. Might be the eyebrows. Better get him home before she gets her knickers in a twist.”

“You leave me mam’s knickers outta this.”

The group of friends say their “good-byes” and alcohol induced “I love yous” before finally separating, Ginny and Dean on either side of Seamus, arms laced through one another, and Pansy, looking far less drunk than the rest, heading in the opposite direction out the front door. Harry and Draco sit silently, neither quite ready to call it a night just yet.

“Ten galleons says we’ll get some sort of threesome story out of Seamus next week,” Draco says with a mischievous smile.

“Not a chance. S’no way Ginny would share Dean with anyone. Trust me.” Harry leans forward, gazing into the bottom of his empty glass.

“Hmm,” Draco says pensively. Harry looks up to meet his gaze. “Trust you? Sounds like you’re quite certain,” he says. “Is it safe to assume that you’ve tried, then?”

Harry shrugs, picking at the edge of his napkin. He knows that alcohol has the tendency to loosen the tongue, but he’s certain this is a conversation he shouldn’t be having with his Auror partner, no matter how drunk they each are.

 _Auror partner,_ Harry reminds himself. _Auror partner and best friend whom you might just be a little bit in love with, so sharing details of past sexual experiences while pissed is out of the question._

“Bimini Road,” Harry says, by way of diversion. Absentmindedly, he traces his finger over the embossed lettering on the napkin. “Do you know what that is?”

Draco laughs, leaning a bit closer to Harry. “Of course I do,” he says, his eyes sparkling with amusement as he stares at Harry. “It’s a pub we’ve come to nearly every week for two years now.”

“Looks like the drunk Irishman left,” Maddy says, setting a pint down in front of Harry. “All yours now, love. Enjoy.”

Harry leans forward, inspecting the thick, dark liquid within. “Besides that, I mean,” he says finally. “There’s a limestone structure that stretches out into the Atlantic Ocean. Some people believe it to be the path to Atlantis.”

“Mmm, yes, that as well.” Draco says, nodding in confirmation as he licks the remnants of alcohol from his bottom lip. Harry finds it difficult to tear his eyes away from Draco’s mouth, but somehow manages.

“You knew that?”

“Of course. What sort of self-respecting pureblood doesn’t know the tales of The Lost City?”

Harry had never heard any stories of Atlantis, but he reasons that none are likely to be Dursley-approved tales, and Hogwarts never had much of an offering in geography classes.

“Arbius told me once that he spent a great deal of his life searching for Atlantis.” Harry gestures toward a large piece of driftwood displayed on the wall. On it are the words, “Enjoy the path, for the destination is only the final part of the journey.”

Harry has often wished he himself could take that advice. How much more fulfilling would his own life be if only he took the time to enjoy what was all around him at this very moment. He watches as Draco slides his finger teasingly around the rim of his glass before bringing it up to his mouth and sucking the flavour off.

Harry suppresses a groan, but only just. Perhaps a change of partners at work wouldn’t be such a bad thing for him. After all, even if he was no longer able to watch Draco throughout the day, it would free him up to ask him out finally, which Harry had wanted to do for quite some time now.

“It’s possible,” Draco says, breaking through Harry’s silent rumination. “To actually do both, don’t you think? Enjoy the journey _and_ the destination?”

“I suppose,” replies Harry, before taking a sip of the bitter, syrupy liquid that Maddy had just delivered.

“I think people—both Muggle and wizards alike—are so caught up with proving themselves right that they sometimes miss the obvious.”

Harry wonders if they’re still talking about The Lost City at all.

 “Perhaps people are so thick that they can’t imagine that path leading them anywhere but exactly to the destination they’ve imagined. Either Atlantis, or an empty sandbank in the bottom of the ocean.”

“So, you think you know how to find it?”

“Of course I do. It’s a combination of spellwork and magical capabilities, just as it is to get into Diagon Alley from the back of The Leaky.”

“And no one else has come to this same conclusion as you, why?”

Draco leans back in his chair, a knowing smile playing on his lips. “Plenty of people have, but would you want to share it with the world if you found it?”

The colour of his eyes seem more blue than grey on nights like these, and whether it’s the copious amounts of alcohol consumed by each of them, or the fact that Harry is probably staring a little more intently than usual, he doesn’t know.

“Have you been there?” Harry asks, forcing his attention once again to the conversation at hand.

“No. It takes magic far greater than I’m capable of to access the gateway. One day,” Draco shrugs, “maybe.”

They sit in a state of silence for a good long while before Draco speaks again. “Come on, Harry. I’ll take you home.”

 _Don’t offer unless you mean it,_ Harry thinks.

“Of course I mean it.” Or perhaps it _wasn’t_ just a thought. “What, you think I’d leave you here with Maddy on the prowl? She’s been eyeing you all night, waiting to separate you from the herd like an injured gazelle.”

Draco stands, tossing what looks like far too many galleons down on the table as he watches Harry watching him.

.

.

.

Harry thinks as they walk down the rain-dampened street together, that he’s doing a rather good job of maintaining a sensible distance from Draco, despite his drunken state. They carry on an easy flow of conversation as they walk, Draco doing most of the talking, Harry trying to focus on the topic of discussion rather than the way Draco licks his lips and smiles at him, or the way he laughs when he recounts a particularly humorous moment between himself and the guys at work. And, though his fingers seem to be aching to reach out and touch Draco, he’s doing a smash-up job of controlling them, too.

Harry smiles with drunken pride before it quickly melts into a frown. He doesn’t _want_ to have to control himself. He _wants_ to be able to lace his fingers together with Draco’s, press warm palms together and enjoy the feel of his skin against Harry’s.

“Potter.” Draco snaps his fingers in front of Harry’s eyes. “Are you even listening to me?”

“What?” Harry rubs a hand down his face. “Of course I am.”

“What was I talking about then?”

_Shit._

Harry frantically searches his thoughts, trying to pick out key points of their conversation. “Err...you were saying that...Jenson has a...bloodline that goes back to...and...with the right combination of limestone–”

“All right, stop it before you hurt yourself. What I was saying is that your drunken ramblings about Atlantis got me thinking about a case I was reading up on. Jenson’s case, as a matter of fact, so I _will_ give you a point for that one. We’ll talk more about this later, though, Harry,” Draco says, coming to a halt in front of the building. He squeezes Harry’s shoulder gently. “Think you can make it the rest of the way?”

Harry turns to look at the ominous, looming steps leading up to the building’s entrance.

“I dunno,” he replies. “Looks iffy.”

Draco’s eyes narrow. “You’re a big baby, Potter.” He loops his arm through Harry’s and hauls him up the steps. Harry laughs as Draco opens the door and pulls him inside.

.

.

.

Monday morning comes all too soon. Reluctantly, Harry drags himself out of bed and stumbles blindly to the loo. Another day of work he hates in a building he’d rather never see again, surrounded by people who are either overly friendly with him, or determined to prove themselves better. It isn’t as if he needs the money, and if it weren’t for Draco, Harry would just quit. He knows they’d still see each other on Friday nights at Bimini Road, but he isn’t sure that’s enough anymore.

"Morning, Potter. You're looking well." Flanning has an uncharacteristic twinkle in his aged blue eyes that immediately sets Harry's nerves on edge.

The commanding Auror has never been what one might call a "morning person," and most people would do well to stay clear of him until after he's got plenty of coffee in his system. The bright, chipper demeanour and cheerful greeting are nothing short of confusing to Harry but, in the interest of starting the day off on a good note, he plays along anyway.

"Thank you, sir," he says, self-consciously flattening down his hair. "So do you."

"Ah, well, you're partner's helped to set the morning right," he replies.

Harry looks at him questioningly, but doesn't bother asking the man to explain. He's learned over the years that Draco is quite full of odd little tricks and surprises, none of which ever fail to entertain.

Pushing open their office door, Harry is greeted with the warm, welcoming aroma of freshly brewed coffee. He's delighted to see that a steaming cup full rests beside a stack of daily paperwork on his own desk. He can't help but smile himself.

Draco, while always making a point of complaining about the way Harry takes his coffee, prepares it flawlessly for him when he so chooses. If nothing else, there's at least that to look forward to here at work, Harry thinks.

Sliding out his chair, he takes a seat, pretending not to notice the papers and files piled high waiting for him, and focuses instead on the mug of thick, dark liquid. He has to suppress a moan of pleasure as he takes his first generous sip. The coffee is bitter with an underlying hint of spice that instantly warms Harry. He smiles contentedly.

"I've defiled your coffee with a dash of cinnamon and nutmeg, just the way you like," Draco says as he steps into the office, his own coffee in one hand and a thin file gripped in the other. Ignoring his own desk on the other side of the office, he sits himself at Harry’s in the chair across from him.

"Mmm...thank you. It's perfect. And, did you also slip something into Flanning's? He’s in an unusually good mood this morning.” The wicked smile that spreads across Draco’s lips sends an unsettling tingle up Harry’s spine. “Oh lord, Draco. You did, didn’t you?”

“Lord Draco,” his partner muses in response as he stares off at nothing. “Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?” He smiles at Harry before tossing the file onto the desktop in front of him.

“What did you do?” Harry asks sternly. He recognises the name on the front of the file. It’s the burglary case that Jenson had been working on last week.

“Relax, do-gooder. It was nothing illegal.”

Harry arches an eyebrow. “Immoral?”

There’s a short pause before Draco replies. “Questionably.” He weaves his fingers together behind his head and leans back in his chair.

Harry sighs, shakes his head, and flips the file open.

“Apparently Flanning has a bit of a weakness for Muggle pastries. Something your weasel introduced me to called doughnuts.”

Draco pronounces the last word carefully and Harry can’t help the laugh that escapes him. A department full of Aurors gathered around a box of doughnuts would be a comical sight. He remembers his uncle watching a television programme that depicted Muggle police officers to be all too fond of the sweets.

“I brought a box in just to butter him up a bit. The kind with the colourful spriggles on top.”

“Sprinkles,” Harry corrects pointlessly.

“Anyway, it worked. We’re to take over Jenson’s case now. And, fortunately for both of us, I did a bit of poking around last Wednesday while I was bored to tears.”

“You mean the Wednesday that I was nearly out of my mind filing appeals with the obliviation squad, approving Apparition licences, and staying at my desk well after six pm licking envelopes? _That_ Wednesday?”

“There’s a spell for that, you realise?”

Harry gapes at his partner, caught between wanting to punch him and snog the smirk right off his beautiful face.

“The envelope licking, I mean. Useful charm, that. Good for other things as well.”

“Draco,” Harry interrupts, trying his hardest not to focus on the licking of other things, be it a charm or not. “Did it cross your mind that _I_ could have used your help that day?”

Looking up at him through long lashes, Draco smiles sheepishly, causing Harry’s heart to flutter. “Can I offer you a spriggled pastry as consolation?”

“Just tell me about this case and let’s get on with it.”

Draco sits forward, resting his forearms on the desk and lacing his fingers together. “All right. It’s a pretty simple case—or, at least it _should_ be. There’ve been a small series of burglaries circling around higher end wizarding households. None of the reported missing items are thought to be linked in any way: an old vase from one home, an heirloom goblet from another. Delores Umbridge claims to be short a pair of silk knickers, but I think it’s in the Ministry’s best interest to leave that one alone.”

Ignoring Draco’s comment about Umbridge, Harry’s mind immediately starts to work in overdrive, weighing in worst-case scenarios. “It isn’t some copycat trying to make Horcruxes, is it?”

“Harry,” Draco admonishes. “I’m sure it isn’t wise to eliminate the possibility, but very few people know about those, let alone how to create them. And, as far as we know, there’s only one man—if you can even call him that—who was twisted in darkness enough to even consider doing such a thing. No. I don’t think it’s anything that extreme.”

“Have we recovered any of the nicked items? Being sold on the streets or anything? Maybe we could do a trace of magical signature on them.”

“None of them have turned up anywhere. Unless you have Umbridge’s knickers in your drawer there.” Draco raises his eyebrows and smiles slyly. “In all seriousness, though, no. And the families aren’t all that concerned with recovering them, either. Ridiculous, really. As far as I know, these things date back thousands of years. The real mystery these people are concerned with is _how_ they’re going missing. Jensen has been in and out of every one of these homes searching for weaknesses in their wards, but everything seems solid.”

“Floo networks?”

“All closed off but one, and the trace on that only went back to their own daughter’s flat in London.”

“Not much to go off of then, eh?” Harry says as he continues to look over the case file in front of him. Draco’s eyes fall on the page Harry is studying.

“Four stolen items: A Byzanium-marbled vase, Adamantite crested goblet, a pendant made of solid Orichalcum, and a Naquadah staff.”

“Okay, I’m going to stop you right there,” Harry says, leaning away from the file as if the words on the page are physically painful to look at. “I only understood about six of the words you just said.”

“Good.” Draco passes Harry a small slip of parchment listing the items he just named. “Look them up.”

“You’re giving me homework?”

Rolling his eyes, Draco shakes his head. “It isn’t homework, Harry. It’s just a...project. I think you might find it interesting. Besides, even if this case isn’t spectacular or terribly in depth, at least it’ll get us out of the office. Maybe you won’t hate your job so much anymore once we’re out and about and actually doing something productive.”

Harry doubts very much that even a week or two away from the confines of their office would help to renew the enthusiasm he once had for his job, but he’s willing to give it a go.

“If you flip to the fourth sheet there,” Draco leans closer, taking the parchment from Harry’s hand and turning it over, “you’ll see a graph I’ve constructed of what I assume is the pattern this person is going by. Four manors in all so far.” The marks on the parchment seem to form an open-sided triangle.

Draco points to a large red dot on the map. "This is the estate of Gilman Upchurch, the first residency to be burglarised. The second," his finger traces along the green line of Baxley Avenue, coming to a halt midway down, "is the home of the Yardleys, Fannon and Kareena." As Draco's finger taps the dot, it sparks to life on the page, flashing the name of the wizarding family that resides there, and also a time and date.

"Is that when it happened?" Harry gestures toward the small blinking numbers.

"Yes. Five days after the first," Draco replies. "And here," he taps the next dot down the road, "Four days after the last one. It's all happened in four and five day intervals, which means the person responsible is acting very quickly."

Harry nods in understanding before tapping the final dot on the map. Red numbers flash 9 o'clock PM, followed by yesterday's date.

"I think that's why Flanning decided to let us have the case," Draco says, responding to Harry's unasked question. "There have already been four of these break-ins in less than a month, and Jenson isn't anywhere near solving this on his own."

"And you are?" Harry asks. He'd never admit it to his partner, but he does admire his passion and determination.

"Well, we've at least got a pattern, don't we? Simple cognitive thinking concludes where and when the next one will occur." Draco’s finger traces along an imaginary line, coming to a halt on a blue dot labelled Edith Dunroe.

"And I suppose if the burglar really is deliberately trying to form a triangle on the map, it seems it'll be one of the last two as well."

Draco nods. "Precisely. And here’s the really interesting part. That conversation we had at Bimini the other night got me thinking.”

“Oh no.”

“Shut it. Anyway, it got me thinking about a few key points Jenson had mentioned about this case. It may sound a bit absurd to you, but bear with me.”

Harry takes another drink of his coffee and waits. He’s certain that the warmth spreading through him is due more to the enthusiasm and excitement of his partner than the hot beverage in his mug.

“All of these households that have been burglarised are ancient, pureblood wizarding families. In fact, if you were to chart their history, each one of the bloodlines can be traced directly back to the very first witch known in history; Zephaniah, the witch of Endor. I’m told she’s mentioned in the Muggle book of...superior opinion, or speculation, or...something like that.”

“The Bible?” Harry asks with interest.

“Yes, that. But, she’s also said to be the very first witch to occupy Atlantis, and the reason the city was later destroyed.”

Harry snorts into his coffee, earning a cool glare of disproval from his partner. “You can’t be serious,” he says nonetheless. “You think this case is somehow linked to the legends of Atlantis?”

“It certainly isn’t too farfetched. If you knew the things I know, I’m sure you’d agree.”

“I’m sorry, Draco,” Harry says, wiping his mouth of any stray drops of coffee. “I find that very hard to swallow.”

Somehow, Draco’s eyes manage to narrow even further. “I’ll give you something hard to swallow,” he murmurs, and Harry snorts with undignified laughter once again.

“Laugh it up, poster boy. You know my favourite thing in the world is telling you ‘I told you so’.”

“All right,” Harry says when he finally has his laughter under control. “What exactly are we supposed to do then? Set up a lookout spot outside the Dunroe manor?"

"Not good enough. See, we've no solid reason to believe it isn't one of these higher end families doing it themselves as some strange ploy for attention. You know how they’ve been since the dust settled after the war. Everyone is so anxious to clear their own names that there’s no saying what extent they would go to. If they’ve got the sympathetic eyes of the Ministry on them, it could only help to cushion their reputation.”

“Someone inside then?” Harry asks, not entirely sure he’s following, but enjoying the sound of Draco’s voice nonetheless.

“Most likely.”

 “Well,” he says, looking up from the sheet of parchment. “Then where do you suggest we start?”

Draco reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket, pulling out a powder blue envelope and tossing it down on top of the file. It’s charmed to show glittering snowflakes slowly dancing down the front. In the centre, elegant silver script reads: _Mr H. Potter_

Harry furrows his brow in confusion. “What is this?”

“A very conveniently timed invitation to a Christmas party at Mrs Thorpe’s manor.”

Harry picks the envelope up, turning it over in his hand. “You opened my mail?” He isn’t exactly sure how upset he should be over this.

“Only because I knew what it was. Seems quite a few important people at the Ministry have been invited. Though, not many Aurors. An owl was here waiting for you when I came in this morning.”

“Was that before or after you weaselled the case away from Jenson, then?” Harry asks, sliding the card out and reading the information. Mrs Thorpe’s Christmas party will be held on Saturday, December 22.  The very day Draco suspects the next burglary will occur.

“Before. I already knew I wanted the case—that we could handle it rather quickly—but when I saw that, I knew it was the perfect window. Honestly, Harry,” Draco says, and Harry can’t help but flinch at the Hermione-like tone of his voice. “All the important people will be there. Even if nothing exciting ends up happening, we’ll still be able to eliminate a few possible suspects.”

Harry stares silently at the letter, watching distractedly as tiny balls of festive glitter burst about the page. When he fails to respond, Draco continues.

“Look, Harry, if I show up alone, there’s going to be outrage. None of these snooty bastards want to see a former Death Eater in their homes—even if said Death Eater _was_ pardoned—let alone for holiday festivities. You, on the other hand–”

“Oh, so now my ‘Poster Child’ face is worth something to you, is it?” Harry cuts in, feeling only slightly insulted, but determined to play it up.

Raking his fingers through his hair, Draco tilts his head back a bit, continuing to stare down his nose at Harry. It gives him the uneasy feeling of being on the wrong end of an interrogation from Auror Malfoy.  Harry shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

“Fine,” he replies before Malfoy even has to say anything else. “Fine, I’ll go.”

Draco's smile is blinding, causing Harry's heart to miss a beat and he thinks that whatever it is he's just agreed to is definitely worth it to see that.

“Fantastic,” Draco says, snatching the file back. “Be ready at 6, then. I’ll pick you up. Remember, Harry, you’re an invited guest. You’ll have to put a smile on and act happy to be there. And, since it’s a Christmas party, I suppose we’ll both have to be rather cheery and festive.”

Harry sighs, resting his forehead in his hands. He reasons that, if he can help his partner solve this one case, perhaps he really _would_ feel better about his job. Maybe he wouldn’t feel like such an utter failure. Most importantly, though, perhaps he’ll finally find the courage to tell Malfoy how he feels about him.

.

.

.

It’s snowing when Harry leaves the office, large flecks drifting gently on the breeze in the dim light of the streetlamps. He ducks down into his scarf, refusing, despite the cold, to Apparate home. A nice long walk will help to clear his mind a bit, he’s certain. Harry knows that something drastic needs to be done in his life, and soon. He needs to find the happiness that he was so certain was there, just out of reach, so many years ago.

An Auror, he thinks, rolling his eyes. It had seemed like a good goal while he was still in school. What does a sixteen year old boy know of what he wants out of life, though? Sure, Harry was forced to grow up a lot faster than most people, but his life had always been a bit...off. From the very beginning he was destined to be different, never knowing exactly what “normal” felt like.

And who would have known that the life he had planned for himself and Ginny would be the exact opposite of what he actually wanted? He’s grateful that she’s still a good friend, and even more grateful that she was so understanding when he finally told her that he wasn’t really interested in her like _that_ anymore.

Harry’s mind wanders off on a tangent until he’s finally drawn out of his musings by the sight of a brightly painted blue door. He isn’t even entirely sure how he ended up here, but sometimes his body seems to know where he needs to go before his mind actually has the time to catch up.

“You look like hell, mate,” Ron says by way of greeting. He steps aside, inviting Harry into the house. “’Mione’s in the sitting room. If you want to head in there, I’ll go grab us some drinks.”

“Thanks,” Harry responds, slowly shuffling down the hall.

He had hoped that he felt more miserable than he actually looked, but he’s never really been good at hiding things from his friends. Straightening his shoulders, he steps into the sitting room and greets Hermione. She smiles up at him before turning her attention back to the stacks of paperwork spread out on the floor around her.

Harry knows better than to interrupt her while she’s working, and from the open book of Magical Medics in her lap, he knows that’s exactly what she’s doing. Hermione loves her job. She loves putting her skills to use every day, researching unknown maladies and coming up with new combinations of magic to cure illnesses. She’s good at her job, and Harry often wonders if there’s anything he’d actually be good at if he weren’t so miserable all the time.

“Here you go, Harry,” Ron says, passing Harry a beer and flopping down unceremoniously onto the couch beside him. “Looks like you need that.”

“You’ve no idea,” replies Harry, before taking a healthy gulp.

“Rough day?”

Rough life, Harry thinks. Full of bullshit self-sacrifice and doing everything that’s expected of him. He wonders when it is that he’ll find his breaking point. “Something like that.”

“I guess life at the Ministry isn’t all we thought it was cracked up to be, eh?”

“Definitely not. For me, at least,” Harry says. “Some people enjoy their jobs.” His mind wanders back to the conversation with Malfoy, the way his eyes seemed to sparkle as he smiled at Harry when he had finally agreed to go to Mrs Thorpe’s stupid Christmas party. If ever there was a good time to tell his friend about the fact that he’s miserable in his job and pining over his partner, Harry thinks that now might be it. Hermione knows how Harry feels about Malfoy. Not because he told her, but because very little slips by her. He hasn’t ever felt it necessary to shove the fact that he’s gay under Ron’s nose, though. But he’s certain his friend knows, even without the aided ease of admission on his part.

“What’s bothering you?” Ron asks, and Harry can’t help the tiny smile that tugs at the corners of his lips. His friend’s concern for him is endearing, and Harry is very thankful to have such amazing people in his life.

He takes a breath to steel himself. Honesty is always the best policy, after all. “I hate my job,” he begins, “and, what makes it worse is that, I’m pretty sure I’m in love with Malfoy.” The last part is spoken so quickly that, even to Harry, it seem to blend together into one long word.

Hermione looks up, wide-eyed and mouth agape. Ron sputters into his beer.

“You’re _what?”_ he asks, disbelief and utter confusion lacing his tone.

Harry nods, casting a small, steady smile at Hermione before turning back to Ron. “Yeah. I’m sure you noticed I don’t date girls, right?”

Ron’s mouth opens and shuts several times as if the words are lodged in his throat, too deep to retrieve.

“Close your mouth, Ronald. You look ridiculous,” says Hermione before re-submerging herself into her work as if nothing at all is different. And Harry supposes that, really, nothing is. All he’s done is put words to a suspicion that he knows his friends have all shared, at least among themselves.

Nevertheless, Harry is flooded with guilt. Ron has been his best mate since they were eleven. To have kept such a profound secret from him for so long feels more than just wrong. It feels like betrayal. He wishes Ron would say something—anything. After another long moment of silence, Harry decides he’ll have to find his own voice to continue, rather than waiting for Ron to speak.

“I hope you aren’t too disappointed,” Harry says quietly.

Another long moment passes before Ron finally responds. “You...that’s...you can’t be serious.”

A biting pain stabs through Harry’s heart at the realisation that his friend will not be as accepting as he had secretly hoped. “I’m afraid I am,” Harry replies.

“But...you _work_ with him. He’s your _partner.”_

Hermione huffs, but Harry simply nods.

“I think you’re missing the main point, Ron,” Hermione says unhelpfully.

“No, really. That’ll completely ruin your career.”

Harry isn’t exactly sure what to say next. He’d expected that Ron would be shocked by the fact that Harry is gay, but he didn’t really consider that his friend might be concerned about his work life at all.

“I...”

“Out of curiosity, does this mean you're gay because Malfoy is, or is that just a convenient coincidence?"

“Coincidence. I promise.” Harry responds, knowing that Ron doesn't really want a drawn out explanation of how he realised he much preferred cock while he was with Ginny, of all people.

“Come on, Harry. I don’t care if it’s Malfoy or any other bloke. Or a _girl,_ for that matter. You can't just go dipping your quill in the company inkpot, mate."

Harry’s dumfounded expression turns to a glare. "First of all, my _quill_ hasn't been dipped in anything in...longer than I care to acknowledge. Secondly, are you implying that Malfoy is property of the Ministry, or that ...everyone's been...dipping...things?"

"You two are terrible at metaphors,” Hermione interrupts, not bothering this time to look up from the parchment she’s studying. “I think I'll write with a pencil from now on. Please stop before I vomit."

“What are you going to do?” Ron asks, ignoring his wife.

Running a hand up the back of his head, Harry shrugs. “I don’t really know. I was sort of hoping the two of you would have some profound, useful advice for me. I mean, it’s been slowly eating at me for way too long now.”

“Well, Harry,” Hermione slams her book shut finally, “my professional opinion on the matter is that you need to let him know. See if he feels the same way and _then_ deal with the logistics of it.”

“Your _professional_ opinion?” Ron scoffs.

Hermione casts him a stern warning glare, but continues to address Harry.

“You know what they say about repeating the same patterns, Harry. You’ll never get new results if you don’t try something different. Take a risk.”

“Objection,” Ron says rather boldly. “Remember last summer when you wanted me to paint the house? I used magic, and you insisted it wasn’t coming out the proper colour. Each time I tried it, the shade was _different_ –”

“And wrong.”

“You made me climb up the ridiculous Muggle death steps–”

“Ladder.”

“And my arse still hurts from falling off,” Ron tells her, absentmindedly shifting on the couch as if his bottom really is still sore. “Anyway, mate, point is, sometimes you _do_ get different results from the same patterns. And other times, you change things and...well, fall on your arse.”

“Thanks, Ron,” Harry replies. “I’ll definitely take that into consideration. Off topic: what do you two know about the Lost City of Atlantis?”

.

.

.

Flipping through the pages of book number three yields no results in finding what he’s looking for. Tired and irritated, Harry has half a mind to Apparate to Draco’s flat and demand to know what the fuck these items are that he’s supposed to be looking up. He sets the book atop the stack of failed searches and grabs another.

Neither Ron, nor—shockingly—Hermione knew much at all about Atlantis. Just that some say it’s mythical; some say they know a guy who knows a guy who’s been there. Nothing Harry hasn’t already heard, and certainly nothing helpful for their case.

He can’t stop thinking of Draco, even if he _does_ want to focus on the pages of the book in front of him. More often lately, for reasons Harry can’t understand, his thoughts wander back to the time spent at St Mungo’s beside Draco’s hospital bed. Watching. Waiting. Praying that his partner would be all right, because the thought of never seeing him smile or even frown again,  never hearing his voice admonish Harry’s poor work ethics or laughing along with him over nothing at all, never being able to tell him he loved him, was all of a sudden a real possibility. And too much for Harry to think of at the time.

He shakes his head to clear his mind, takes a sip of his tea, and dives back into the book. Pages upon pages describing valuable jewels and metals, thousands of words on ancient weaponry and still nothing on the strange materials listed in the burglary cases.

Bored and sleepy, Harry decides to pick up the book Hermione lent to him instead, _Paradisus Seputus: Sunken Paradise;_ a heavy tome of legends and tales of Atlantis.

Harry is startled from his exploration by a gentle rapping at his window. He jumps up to let the owl in and has to smile to himself when he sees the tidy, elegant writing on the note. It's almost as if he somehow called to Draco with his thoughts alone.

 

_ <blockquote>Dear Boy of Amazement Who Lived and Lived Again,</blockquote>_

"Son of a..." Harry mumbles before reading on.

 

_< blockquote>It occurred to me this evening that, if you didn't know any envelope licking charms, you weren't likely to know (or remember, at any rate) a revealing charm to use on your "homework". Most books aren't protected against them, though I'm sure you'll find that some are. There are a number of spells that are effective in highlighting the exact words of your search criteria. Also, a helpful few that will turn straight to the page for you._

_In any case, if you don't find what you're looking for tonight, I'll end your suffering in the morning._

_Sleep well,  
                                                           Draco </blockquote>_

Harry grits his teeth and crumbles up the parchment, tossing it across the room. Truth be told, he really _didn't_ remember that there was a revealing spell, but now that Draco saw fit to remind him, Harry does recall Hermione using it during their search for Nicolas Flamel in first year.

Picking up his wand, he casts a series of charms to aid him in his search. Harry is awash with relief when two of the books flip open, pages turning quickly as they drift down in front of him, and equally pleased when pages of _Paradisus Seputus,_ that he already has, open begin to glow, indicating that they too have the information he is looking for.

His finger traces down the pages, picking out what he needs and scribbling notes on a separate sheet of parchment. Adamantite, Harry finds, is a rare stone of unknown origin, equally hard as diamond and usually green in colour. Byzanium is supposedly a mineral so rare and powerful that when the last known supply of it sank to the bottom of the ocean a hundred years ago, its disappearance nearly started an all out world war. Though, now, it’s claimed to have been only a fictional mineral. In the book titled _Critias_ or what Harry has taken to referring to as _The Big Book of Atlantis,_ the writer states that Orichalcum is a beautiful metal second in value only to gold, and used in much of the decorative architecture of the city. In another book of fiction, he finds that Naquadah is a sort of gas used as a power source. When contained, it swirls and twists into itself in a tangle of blue and silver mist.

Harry is still tempted by the urge to Apparate to Draco and have him explain, but he supposes it can wait until the morning.

.

.

.

"Mythical materials?" Harry asks when he sees Draco the next morning.

His partner looks up from the papers on his desk, arches an eyebrow, and gestures toward a pensieve atop Harry's file cabinet. The shallow basin is projecting small, six inch images of the stolen items, Harry assumes, from the memories of their respective owners.

"Obviously not mythical," Draco replies as he re-inks his quill and continues to write.

"But thought to be," Harry says, crossing the room and kneeling for closer examination.

"Indeed."

Harry was shocked to find that, according to the books he'd searched through last night, each of these objects really _were_ linked to the legends of The Lost City.

"Incredible," he whispers.

"Yes," Draco says, sliding his chair back and walking across the room. "I had Pansy accompany me to Bimini last night. Don't worry," Draco holds up a hand before Harry has a chance to speak. "I didn't give her any information at all. As far as she knew, it was just two friends going out for drinks."

An irrational twinge of jealousy spikes through Harry, but he quickly pushes it down.

"And, as far as _you're_ concerned?"

Draco smiles. "Investigation, of course. See, the conversation you and I had at Bimini, combined with the oddities of this case, all point to our dear William Arbius as a prime suspect."

Harry is certain his expression is more than just shocked.  "Arbius? Wha– How? Why?"

"So far, he's the only one we have. We'll see how things go at the Christmas party, though."

"But...Arbius has no. There isn't. I mean," Harry stammers.

"Clearly you're suffering a caffeine deficiency. Grab your coat."

As they make their way to the coffee shop down the street from the Ministry, Draco explains to Harry the information he'd gathered the previous night. He tells him that the barman didn't offer much at all on the topic, and, as Draco was unwilling to tip him off, he chose not to prise.

"One thing I found interesting, though," says Draco before taking a sip of his coffee, "was that he actually did tell me one of the methods he'd used before when trying to get through what he assumed to be the entrance to Atlantis. He said that he'd gathered a couple of friends, positioned each of them on top of the Pillars of Hercules as he himself stood on the shores of the Mediterranean Sea.” Draco shakes his head. "Poor fool. Everyone knows the entrance is within the Devil’s Triangle.”

Draco's voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper as he leans across the table, warm amaretto breath fanning out over Harry as he continues to speak. "See, Arbius thought that, by gathering a few wizards to position all around the _supposed_ entrance, their combined magic would be sufficient enough to open the gateway. Pansy snorted at his theory, then started rambling on about how it would never work unless all the wizards were directly linked to Atlantis. She called it the Law of Contagion. That's when our jolly cockney friend clammed up and had nothing else to say on the matter."

"That doesn't mean he has anything to do with it, Draco. Maybe he just honestly doesn't know anything."

"Maybe." Draco sits back in his chair and shrugs. "And maybe he does. Do you know what the Law of Contagion is, Harry?"

“Actually, I _do_ know this one. It’s the second sublaw in the Law of Association. Objects that’ve been in contact with each other will continue to act on one another even after any physical contact has been severed.”

Draco squeezes his eyes shut tightly, smiles and shakes his head and, for a brief moment, his hand disappears under the table. “God, that just made me so fucking hard.”

Harry’s mouth goes completely dry.

“ Yes,” Draco continues, with a slow smile and a nod. “Yes, that is _exactly_ right. And, no matter the distance, according to the Law of Similarity, not even time can erase the connection.”

.

.

.

The rest of the week seems to drag by at an achingly slow pace. Harry isn't really looking forward to the weekend, what with Mrs Thorpe's Christmas party and all, but the sooner Draco stops lecturing him in the laws of physics and the oceans tide in conjunction with the moon at ninety degrees from the sun, the better. Harry finds it somewhat humorous that he's actually learning a thing or two. He wonders if he'd care at all if it weren't Draco's lips wrapping around the words of his daily lessons as they sit in their office together, or walk the cold, grey streets of London.

There are no disturbing or embarrassing games being played by his friends this time when he arrives at Bimini Friday night. Just as every other week, Arbius greets him with a friendly smile and a bottle of beer.

Even as the man grunts his disapproval for the "menacing Friday night crowds" and wraps his giant, meaty fingers around the bottle he passes over the bar, Harry still can't see anything beyond a gentle old man with a slightly faded twinkle in his eye. He doesn't know what Draco could possibly be thinking.

"Right here, you," Pansy says, sliding out the chair between her and Draco as Harry approaches. "Sit your adorable arse here next to me.”

“You find Potter’s arse adorable, eh, Pans?” Draco asks, amused.

“Please.” She rolls her eyes dramatically. “As if you don’t.”

The raised eyebrow and half shrug that Draco offers his friend before taking a sip of his drink do not escape Harry’s attention.

“Potter!” Seamus calls cheerfully from the other end of the table. “Are you grand, like? Thought you’d never turn up.”

“It’s just after 9, Seamus,” Dean says. “Harry isn’t late. Just seems that way because you’ve been drinking since noon.”

“Oh, right. Sure, happens sometimes.” Seamus smiles crookedly before downing the rest of his drink.

“What’s the game?” Harry asks. “You lot are disturbingly mellow tonight. I’m not sure what to make of it.”

“No drinking games,” Pansy replies, waving her hand dismissively. “I think the sex noises one broke us last week. We lost a quarter of our group before the night even started.”

“We’ve got serious aspirations tonight, Harry.” Ginny hands Draco a glass of firewhiskey and takes her seat next to Dean. “See, Seamus here is characteristically twelve sheets to the wind already and entirely unable to remember our lovely waitress’ name.”

“Again!” the rest of the group calls in unison.

“S’Minnie,” Seamus declares with drunken confidence.

“No, darling.” Pansy pats the back of his hand. “No, it isn’t.”

Flipping her hair over her shoulder, Ginny leans closer. “We’re hoping that Seamus here will stop being such a wanker and ask her out finally.”

“And I say it’s a ridiculous plan,” Draco interrupts. “What Seamus here needs is a good, vicious woman who can actually handle him.” He winks at Pansy, resting his arm across the back of Harry’s chair.

“Nah, I told yeh, Marry’s the kinda gal who’s only good for a one-off.” Seamus leans back in his chair, nearly toppling over. “And even if that were my goal, it wouldn’t work. S’been so long, I don’t even think I remember what sex is. My sad prick is practically banjaxed.”

“Maybe you should have Draco take a look at it,” Pansy offers. “He’s quite the cocksmith, you know.”

With a raised eyebrow, Draco smiles a charming half-smile that’s part “what can I say,” and part “I dare you to try and find out.” Harry groans inwardly and, as with most of their Friday night gatherings, quickly decides this evening calls for something much stronger.

“You don’t have to bring her home to meet your mum or anything,” Ron tells Seamus. “Just bring her into one of the restroom cubicles.” This comment earns him an elbow to the ribs courtesy of his sister.

“So romantic,” Hermione says.

“Speaking of,” Pansy cuts in. “Draco, darling, weren’t you telling us about your strong penchant for being fucked up against a wall?”

Harry’s breath catches in his throat. He watches as grey eyes flick from Pansy to him and back again.

Composing himself impressively fast, Draco folds his arms over his chest and leans back in his chair, scowling at his friends and, Harry notes, managing to look _fanfuckingtastic_ as he does so.

“I’m not discussing sex with you whoreish cock-tarts. This isn’t Free Porn Friday.”

“Oooh,” Seamus says excitedly. “When exactly _is_ that, then?”

“Prude,” Pansy says, addressing Draco. “I know it’s been a while for you, sweetheart, but surely you can remember enough to share _some_ of the details. You stopped mid-story as soon as Harry showed up. Suddenly shy, or is it just the company?”

“I’m actually good with _not_ hearing the rest of that story,” Ron says. His forehead creases and he looks almost nauseous.

Harry imagines his facial expression isn’t much different from his friend’s. Bile rises in his throat at the thought of Draco with someone else, even if it _was_ a long time ago. He throws back the remainder of his drink to wash down the taste and the thought all at once. 

Maddy makes her rounds well into the night, never really even acknowledging Seamus’ existence—which appears to be fine with him since he can’t seem to take his eyes off of Pansy—but focusing an uncomfortable amount of attention on Harry. At one point, she even trails a long, manicured nail down his jaw line after handing him his drink.

“Laying it on a bit thick this time, isn’t she?” Draco asks, glaring at the back of her head as she walks away.

“Jealous, love?” Pansy smirks.

“Always,” replies Draco.

Harry hates that he can never tell if his partner is joking when he says things like that. Before he has time to worry over a response, Seamus adds his own useful opinion to the conversation.

“Maybe you need to snog someone else in front of her to get the message across that you aren’t interested.”

“Oh!” Pansy shouts, eyes wide.

“Pardon me,” Draco whispers as he leans over Harry, dipping his fingers into Pansy’s martini and fishing out an olive.

Ignoring him, she continues. “I know someone he could–” Draco shoves the olive into her mouth.

“That’s enough out of you, I think.”

Throughout the remainder of the evening, Harry tries his damndest to ignore the implication of the exchange, but he can’t help the tiny spark of hope in his chest.

.

.

.

Harry tries four times to tie a proper knot in his tie before finally giving up and using the spell Draco taught him last year. With one last glance into the mirror, he smoothes non-existent wrinkles from his shirt, straightens his glasses, and tries futilely to flatten his hair. He sighs in defeat, turns, and leaves the bathroom.

Harry is impressed by his own ability to resist the urge to cast Tempus a third time. Draco will arrive precisely when he said he would, just as he always does. And why is Harry so nervous, anyway? It isn’t as if this is a date, despite how it seems.

Draco arrives moments later, looking every bit as perfect as Harry had tried _not_ to imagine he would.  He stands at Harry’s front door, one finger hooking the jacket he’s tossed casually over his shoulder, sleeves rolled up to his elbows showing a delicious bit of his marked, pale forearm, and Harry is almost positive he’s brought himself off to a similar image in a magazine a time or two...All right, seven.

When they arrive at Mrs Thorpe’s manor, Harry is awe-struck at the elaborate decorations and crowd of guests in their holiday best. He generally avoids parties and other such gatherings when he can, so he didn’t really prepare himself for the number of people that would be here. Before even entering, he sees at least a dozen faces he recognises and many more that he doesn’t.

“Mister Harry Potter, sir,” the house-elf who opens the door greets. “And Mister Harry Potter’s guest.”

“Perfect,” Draco murmurs under his breath. “I’ve always wanted a nickname.”

“Can Brit take your coats, sirs?”

“My word, what have we here?” A short, lavender-haired woman in a glittering red gown approaches them as they hand their coats to the house-elf. “Harry Potter, how delightful.” She kisses his cheek, first one, and then the other before turning to greet Draco in the same manner. “I heard rumour you’d be here. I’m Edith Dunroe.”

“Good to meet you,” Harry replies.

“I don’t know if you remember, Mr Potter, but you actually helped my late husband, Roger, a few years ago. Saved his life, in fact.”

“Oh, um…” Harry doesn’t recall the name Roger, but he remembers giving an elderly gentleman an antidote after the man accidentally ingested a poisonous extract. “Of course. Roger, belladonna.”

“Ah, he’s quite the hero, isn’t he?” Draco says.

The woman smiles, gazing fondly at Harry.

“Harry,” another voice greets. The man stretches his hand out to shake Harry’s.

“Garin, hello.” Harry is inexplicably nervous all of a sudden. He has nothing to at all to feel guilty over, but having the man he had turned down standing here with Harry and the man he turned him down _for_ just feels wrong somehow. Especially since Draco still doesn’t actually know that he’s why Harry refuses to date _anyone._

“Lynch.” Draco steps up, taking the man’s hand in greeting and casting a quick, side-eyed glance at Harry. “Seems we’ve managed to block the foyer here. Shall we move the party into the hall with the other guests?”

Draco and Mrs Dunroe lead the way into the main hall, Harry close behind and Garin lagging back to walk with him. Harry grabs a flute of champagne from the bar as they pass.

“Not that it’s any of my business, Harry, but you two seem to spend a lot of time together.” Garin gestures toward Draco, making it clear the other half of the “two” he’s speaking of.

Harry takes a sip of his drink and nods. “He’s my partner and a great friend,” he answers. He can’t seem to take his eyes off of Draco as he and Mrs. Dunroe make their way through the room, greeting acquaintances and familiar friends.

“Is that all?”

 _Unfortunately._ “That’s all.”

“Well, assuming you’re otherwise unattached, I’d still like to take you out some time.”

“I don’t really date, Garin. But I appreciate your…interest.”

“Oh, come on, Harry. You eat, don’t you? We could just call it dinner rather than a date.” He smiles a charming smile and nudges Harry gently. “Just think about it.”

“Maybe I will.” Harry takes another sip of his drink. “Think about it, that is,” he qualifies. Thinking about it can’t hurt, after all. And it isn’t really like he’s doing anything to progress his non-existent relationship with Draco. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to just have dinner with Lynch.

Harry catches Draco’s eye from across the room. Looking a bit tense, he offers Harry a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He’s got a lot on his mind from this case, and Harry knows that he shouldn’t be allowing his partner to take on the brunt of the work, but each time he asks Draco what else he can do, he finds himself buried in more “homework,” as he likes to call it. Of course, he can’t deny that the things Draco is teaching him are fascinating. He just sometimes finds his thoughts occupied with other, more distracting images than those of the Lost City.

Harry manages to break away from Lynch’s company and wander about the room for the next hour. He chats with people, smiles at all the right times, and does his best to present himself as a pleasant, sociable person, just as Draco had asked him to.

His partner, on the other hand, seems to have parked his arse at the bar by the door and, while Harry does see by the focused look in his eyes that Draco enters into _Auror Observation Mode_ more than once, he doesn’t seem to be socialising very much at all. That usually means that he’s onto something, but he hasn’t yet gestured for Harry to join him.

As everyone begins to file into the dining room, Harry slides up to the bar beside Draco.

"You're supposed to be enjoying the festivities,” he says. “Not drinking yourself into a coma."

"What's more festive than buttered rum?" Draco asks innocently.

Harry reaches back into his memory recalling his uncle drinking buttered rum at a Christmas party; a warm, creamy drink served in a mug. Harry knows this because it was he who served it to his uncle.

"That doesn't look like buttered rum to me," he says, gesturing to the glass of nearly clear, brownish liquid as Draco takes a sip.

"Well, it is," he replies with a grin. "Minus the butter and heavy on the rum, just the way I like it."  
Harry rolls his eyes.

“Have you seen anything interesting,” Harry asks in a hushed tone as he watches the crowd of people go by.

“Mmm,” Draco hums. “Definitely.” He picks up his drink and heads into the dining room with the rest of the guests, Harry close behind.

Mrs Dunroe waves to Harry from her place at the table, gesturing for him to take the seat beside her. As he sits down, the golden dish in front of him fills with food, just like at Hogwarts. Harry is stricken with a sense of fond nostalgia. Unfortunately, he doesn’t feel very hungry. His thoughts are busy and he just can’t seem to focus on the conversation Mrs Dunroe is trying to carry out with him. The woman is certainly pleasant company, but Harry would much rather be sitting next to Draco.

His eyes linger on Draco throughout Mrs Dunroe’s account of growing up in the wizarding countryside. It’s almost entrancing, the way his hair shines in the light, the curve of his lips as he smiles, his eyes, dark despite their natural colour as he gazes at Harry.

“Have you been to Brooksworth, Mr Potter?” the woman asks. “It’s a lovely place, really.”

“Yes, actually,” Harry says. “My partner and I were there for a week a while back. His eyes remain locked with Draco’s just long enough for the woman beside him to notice. Her short intake of breath draws Harry’s attention back to her.

"Oh! I'm sorry, how rude of me to steal you away," the woman says, pressing a hand to her chest. "I didn't realise you two were partners."

"Uh...Yes. We have been for," Harry glances over at Draco again, but his partner seems to have more interest in the bottom of his glass than this conversation, "four years now."

"That's delightful," the woman beams, eyes crinkling with the weight if her smile.

Harry spears a carrot, pushing the food on his plate around with the hopes that it'll make it look like he's eaten more.

"So good to see young love flourishing," she continues.

At this, Harry's eyes snap back to the lavender-haired woman.

"Oh! No, we're not–"

"I tell you, something's gravely wrong with young people these days. Flitting about from one relationship to the next. A complete disregard of people's feelings."

"That isn't actually what I–"

"In my day, 'divorce' was a four-letter word. Never mind the fact that it's a disgrace to wizarding families in general."

"But, we really aren't–"

"I don't care what Muggle society deems appropriate. Love should be cherished no matter the coupling."

Harry shoves the carrot into his mouth. Words clearly will not be getting through to Mrs Dunroe. He wonders what Draco thinks of her assumption if, in fact, he is lucid enough to have heard any part of the conversation. He chances a glance at his partner. Draco is watching him with careful eyes, swirling his drink casually in its glass and smiling, looking every bit like the cat who caught the Snidget.

"How's that roast, sweetheart?" he calls across the table, eliciting a delighted giggle from Mrs Dunroe.

Harry feels his cheeks heating with the fervour of his embarrassment. He glares, but Draco simply wink, causing him to blush even further and look away quickly, focusing on the cream and gold coloured threads of the table linen.

As Harry watches the tabletop, the spread of delectable holiday food dissolves into thin air, only to be replaced by countless desserts: cakes, puddings, pies and tarts, each one adding a delicious fragrance that seems to compliment the next.

House-elves scamper about quietly as people in the hall continue with their conversations. The silent but powerful magic of the elves has never ceased to impress Harry, and tonight is certainly no exception as he fondly observes glittering orbs drifting about the room and garlands of holly and poinsettia edging each mantel. The house-elves are pleasant, quietly popping in and out of the room, seeing to each guest without interrupting, and making sure that everyone is happy.

Harry finds it amusing that, even after Hermione’s S.P.E.W. movement, most house-elves still choose to serve their masters without pay. It’s an insult to them, for the most part, to accept any sort of compensation for their services. Of course, there are a select few who chose to go the route of the Free Elf which, incidentally, isn’t _free_ at all. From what Harry can see for himself, several of Mrs Thorpe’s own house-elves are of the paid variety. Across the room, he can see one of them wearing a bright green skirt and red bauble earrings, and another in silver trousers and a burgundy smoking jacket. A third still—Brit, the one who answered the door—is wearing a strange pair of mismatched socks with stripes, both on her feet, and on her ears. The clothed elves all seem to be just as happy to be here as the rest, and Harry is sure it’s because they’re being paid well for their services.

 _Paid for their services_ his thoughts echo; small bits of information nudging their way into his consciousness for Harry to mull over through the remaining portion of dinner.

What seems like hours later, half of the guests wander into a dimly lit parlour to relax with their brandy, while the other half make their way into the ballroom. Sheer tapestries of gold and green and red are draped from the ceiling, iridescent bubbles drift just below them. Harry is surprised that anyone in their right mind would want to dance so soon after dinner, but he can certainly see the temptation in moving along to the beautiful music.

Like a magnet, Harry’s eyes seek out Draco again. He isn’t far away this time, smiling and chatting with the lady of the house before she’s swept away to dance. Mrs Dunroe waves to him from across the room and Harry feels a twinge of guilt. Right at this very moment, someone could be breaking into her home, and he should be there to stop it. She’s at least safe herself, though, being here, out of the line of danger should anything actually happen.

He scans the crowd, memorising the faces of as many guests as possible. After all, the goal was to eliminate possible suspects tonight. He sees Garin making his way through the crowd in Harry’s direction, but just as the man is almost within speaking range, Draco steps up next to Harry.

“Might as well give Mrs Dunroe a proper show.”

Draco takes Harry’s hand and leads him out onto the dance floor. Harry wants to laugh at the absurdity of it, but just as the thought enters his mind, he finds his body pressed to Draco’s and he’s no longer able to focus on anything but the feel of him and the musky-sweet sent that’s consuming him. He’s so lost in the pleasant fragrance and the warm press of the body against his that he isn’t sure how long it takes him to register the fact that Draco is speaking, whispering softly in Harry’s ear.

“This doesn’t bother you, does it?” he asks.

“N–no,” replies Harry, squeezing his eyes shut as Draco turns them with the same soft grace as the music playing.

_Oh, god._

Harry’s heart hammers in his chest and his skin sparks with nervous energy. He inhales deeply, hoping the slow, steady breath will help to soothe his budding anxiety. It only serves to drive the spike of desire even deeper into Harry’s heart, though, as he’s once again surrounded by the warm smell of Draco.

As they move and sway gently to the music, a thought occurs to Harry. Suddenly, he has a very clear understanding of exactly why people call this sort of feeling a “crush.” It's as if his heart is being squeezed in his chest, weighted down with the intensity of suppressed emotions and frustration and desire so thick that it literally is crushing him.

He'd like nothing more than to send a patronus to Flanning with his message of resignation, Apparate home with Draco, seal the door shut against any possible visitors, and spend the entire night tasting every inch of his body.

Harry pulls away abruptly, a surge of guilt washing over him as he watches Draco's eyebrows draw down in confusion. He wonders if his partner would actually be doing anything like this if he had any idea of the effect he has on Harry. Wiping his sweaty palms on his trousers, he takes a step back.

“I, um...actually, I thought of something during dinner. I...wanted to tell you before it slipped my mind.”

“Oh? And this is something that requires distance and stillness?” Draco asks, slipping his hands into his pockets and quirking a small, half smile at Harry.

“Let’s go get a drink,” Harry says, hoping his voice sounds more steady than he feels.

As they walk out into the foyer, a house-elf passes by carrying a tray of champagne.  Harry grabs two flutes, offering one to Draco as he turns to meet his gaze.

“Thank you, no. It doesn’t go well with rum.”

With a shrug, Harry downs both glasses himself.

“Are you all right?” Draco asks, taking the flutes from Harry and setting them on another passing tray.

His eyebrows are knit together in concern and all Harry wants to do is pull him close again, feel his arms around him, his breath on Harry’s neck. Some small, irrational part of his brain tells him that, if only he could get Draco closer, the pain in his chest will subside. As if the proximity of Draco’s heart is a balm for the ache in Harry’s.

“House-elves,” Harry says rather abruptly. “That’s how they’re getting into these manors. House-elves can Apparate and Disapparate through wards as they wish.”

Draco appears to be seriously considering the possibility, but begins to shake his head. “That can’t be,” he says.

“Why not? Think about it. We’ve already explored all other avenues as far as the actual break-ins go. It’s the only real possibility. Free elves can do anything they’re hired to do, can’t they? Whoever’s responsible for this wouldn’t use their own house-elves, because it would be too easy to trace back to them.”

“Interesting,” Draco says, eyeing one of the house-elves. “You might be on to something there.” His gaze is distant and contemplative as his teeth press into his bottom lip. “We’ll look into it more Monday. Shall we go, or did you want to dance some more?” he asks teasingly.

.

.

.

Harry feels a little foolish as Draco walks him to his door, but then, he supposes Draco almost _always_ walks him to his door, so it isn't as if anything is different.

"Thank you," Draco says, just as Harry turns to say good bye. He smiles that brilliant smile that makes Harry's heart ache in a wonderful way before he breaks into a soft laugh. Placing a hand over his own chest in a dramatic gesture of exaggerated girliness, Draco bats his eyelashes. "I had a lovely time," he adds, to which Harry can't help but chuckle himself.

They stare at each other for a long moment as their laughter fades and their smiles slowly fall. Harry can almost _feel_ a shift in the air around him, a tangible charge in the atmosphere as Draco takes a step closer, then another. The uncertainty in his eyes is entirely unfamiliar to Harry. His tongue peeks out, licking his bottom lip in a gesture that Harry is sure comes from nervousness, but his brain doesn’t have time to process the meaning behind it. Draco’s hands, warm despite the chilly night air, move slowly to cup Harry's face. His breath is so near Harry’s own lips that he can taste its sweetness on the tip of his tongue.

And then Draco tilts his head, brushing his lips softly over Harry’s; a fleeting taste. Harry is frozen in place, shocked into utter stillness. Is he breathing? He can’t even tell. All he can do is stare at his friend, while so many questions graze the borders of his consciousness. Is it really happening, this thing that Harry has thought about countless times?

Draco’s lips press to his again, more firmly, drawing Harry out of his trance and this time he doesn’t hesitate to return the gesture. Slowly, their mouths move together, lips parting and breaths mingling. A buzz of energy seems to surround them, swirling up through the air and encasing them in a tepid hum of magic.

Harry feels as if the ground is falling from beneath his feet, every particle of his being focused solely on the man before him, the mouth on his.

Time stands still.

In fairytales and Muggle films, the kiss is always the part where hearts flutter and emotions soar, but for Harry, that isn't the case.

No. For Harry, it's quite the opposite, actually. He's certain that his heart stops altogether; so overwhelmed that it simply fails to continue beating. And this raw emotion—already so strong that he isn't sure how he's even able to go about his everyday life bearing the burden of Secret Love's weight—that freezes, too. At the very peak of its strength, there with Draco's chest against his, thumbs gently tracing Harry's jaw line, tongue softly pressing against Harry's, he knows that it's all he'll ever need. If he's never allowed another single breath in this lifetime, he'll be forever grateful for this moment. Harry is sure that he could happily die right now, shatter into a billion tiny fragments and disperse throughout the universe.

He sighs against Draco's lips and finds himself melting into the kiss a little more. He's sure that proper first kiss etiquette would call for them to separate half a minute ago, but Harry can't seem to care. He's dreamt of this for so long that there isn't anything in the world that could make him stop now.

Except Draco himself.

When time begins to move again, Harry finds that his hands have traveled up to Draco's, holding them firmly in place. Draco moves back a bit, breaking their kiss and possibly Harry's heart, but only a little. He rests his forehead against Harry's and exhales a shaky breath that comes out more like a nervous laugh.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, but the way his fingers continue to traverse Harry's jaw and neck contravene his words.

"I'm not," replies Harry.

Draco smiles and kisses him again before finally pulling away.

There's a gleam in his eyes that Harry only sees on the rare occasion that his friend is entirely inundated with uninhibited happiness; when he received his pardon from the Ministry, when he earned his degree, when he was assigned his first case as an Auror.

The flutter in Harry's stomach and tightness in his chest are unlike anything he's ever felt as the phantom press of Draco's kiss still lingers on his lips.

"Good night, Harry," Draco says, backing away down the hall. The tug in Harry's chest is suggestive of tiny invisible strings that he imagines must be tied around his heart and attached to Draco.

"Good night," Harry replies, unable to take his eyes off of the other man until he's disappeared around the corner.

Harry steps into his flat, presses his back to the closed door, and slides down, mind numb and eyes wide.

.

.

.

“Don’t bother sitting,” Draco says, rushing into the office Monday morning at a speed that sends several papers fluttering from his desktop to the floor. “We have a portkey to catch.”

Harry’s hardly thought of anything at all over the last thirty hours other than the kiss, so Draco’s words don’t exactly compute. His mind works to catch up as he watches Draco swoop around their office, gathering papers and shrinking them down before shoving them into his pocket.

“What’s going on?” Harry asks, grabbing the case file off the desk and following Draco out the door.

“This,” Draco says as they step into the lift. He passes Harry one of the tiny papers, flicking his want to enlarge it again.

“That’s Jenson’s arrest records from last night. Turns out that old barman was caught outside of Edith Dunroe’s house with a few nicked items.”

“Arbius?” Harry asks in surprise. “Really?”

“And, as much as it pains me to admit it, you were right.”

Harry looks up from the parchment just as the lift clanks to a halt. “About?” he asks.

“The house-elves. He really was paying them to get in and out of these places.”

“I can’t _believe_ that,” Harry says, examining the arrest record again as Draco takes him by the elbow and leads him out into the corridor of level six. “Do we at least get a chance to question him?”

“Believe it, Potter. I told you, people are bad. And, no. He’s no longer in Ministry custody.” Draco guides them through a set of doors labelled _Department of Magical Transportation._ A stout, grey haired witch greets them in a professional tone, handing Draco a small folded leaflet and fork with two of its tines curling in opposite directions.

“No longer in custody? What the fu...” Harry glances at the woman who’s eyebrows are drawn down as she glares at him, silently daring him to finish that word in her presence. Harry wisely closes his mouth.

“Through the purple doors, gentlemen,” she says, pointing to another set of doors opposite them.

Feeling very much like a child being ushered to and fro, Harry pulls his arm free of Draco’s grip. “Wait,” he demands. “Are you actually planning on filling in the blanks for me, or am I just supposed to follow along quietly and try not to get myself killed?”

“That would be fantastic,” Draco says, closing the doors behind them. The room is small, a couch, just as purple as the doors, covers the length of one wall, a giant fish aquarium along the next. “But I’m sure you’re being facetious.” Draco startles Harry with a kiss to the cheek before crossing the room and taking a seat on the couch. He unfolds the leaflet, examining the portkey information before pulling out his stack of tiny papers.  “Have a seat and I’ll show you. We have about ten minutes.”

Draco enlarges the rest of the papers, spreading them out on the small, crooked table before them. Harry sits down next to Draco, opening the case file to follow along.

“Now, what we already know is that the items being stolen are all connected by the Law of Contagion. The materials are directly linked to the Lost City.” Draco looks at Harry. “That is to say, they’re all the same rare materials used in building the city itself. Also, since each one of them can factually be traced back to Atlantis, it’s safe to say the link is conclusive.

“Jenson was patrolling our area last night when he saw Arbius outside the Dunroe manor. He stopped to question him and that’s when a house-elf appeared holding a diadem made of Orichalcum with an Adamantite triangle on it. Arbius argued with Jenson as he put him under arrest, but even with the magical binds in place, the old man was able to Apparate away.”

“Jenson didn’t take his wand?” Harry asks. He hopes that none of his fellow Aurors could actually be _that_ stupid, but one never really knows.

“Of course he did. But what Jenson didn’t take into account was–”

“–the elf,” Harry finishes.

Draco nods and passes Harry another piece of paper. This one is full of numerical formulas and small notes that seem to be in another language, even though Harry is certain they aren’t.

“This report here describes the physics surrounding the moon’s cycle and the impact it has on the tide. If you look here,” he hands Harry a picture. It appears to be a sort of moving weather map, white clouds slowly drifting over the ocean, blocking out small bits of land.

“It’s a satellite aeronautical chart. Shows there’s a cyclonic eddy in the Bermuda region right now causing the tides to be at their lowest in decades.”

“I’m still not following,” Harry replies. “What does low tide have to do with a burglary case?”

“That’s just it, Harry. This isn’t _just_ a burglary case. He was gathering these objects to put at the three corners of the Devil’s Triangle.” Draco pulls out yet another map. “Two of the items have been found in Puerto Rico, two in Miami, Florida. All hardwired to their places with irreversible sticking charms. The last spot,” Draco taps the third dot making up the triangle, “Is where we’re going.”

“So Arbius escaped with the remaining objects, and wasn’t aware that you had located the others? How _did_ you locate the others, anyway?” Harry isn’t sure how he should feel right now. Proud of his partner for putting so much thought and determination into this case, inferior for his own lack of interest in it to begin with, or—and this should by all reason be furthest from his mind, but isn’t—concerned about the kiss he and Draco shared that is certain to shift the dynamic of their friendship for better or worse. He’s definitely confused, and completely distracted.

“I came in last night when I heard about Jenson catching Arbius. Did some more research, contacted some people through the international floo network.” He shrugs one shoulder. “The stupid stuff that makes me happy.”

“You really are good at this,” Harry says. As soon as the words leave his mouth, he wants to kick himself. _Way to state the obvious, Potter._

“Thank you. Anyway,” Draco shuffles through the papers and hands Harry another, “When he has all the objects in place, he should, by his logic, be able to create a web of magic that will amplify his own. And, as long as the tides are at their lowest, there’s no reason it won’t work to open the gateway.”

“So, we’re going to Bermuda in the hopes that we’ll catch Arbius and stop him from opening Atlantis?”

“Yes, and no. It isn’t just a matter of stopping him just because he stole the items he’s using as his key. The sort of ancient magic that he’ll need to conjure for this ritual of his is dangerous. It could be catastrophic to all those islands in that region. Flanning, Jenson, and a few others are already stationed around the triangle watching for him and guarding the other items. There’s a team in Bermuda right now tracking him.”

Draco flicks his wand, re-shrinking the paper work and tucking it away again. He holds the fork up to Harry. “All we have to do is get there and arrest him.”

Harry nods, still in some state of disbelief, and wraps his fingers around the cool silver handle.  The sharp tug behind his navel is familiar, but somehow still unexpected.

.

.

.

Harry lands on his arse just the same as he always does when travelling by portkey. Draco reaches a hand out to help him up. They appear to be on a cliff above the ocean, the sound of waves crashing against the rocks below. The sky is a clear blue with thin wisps of clouds streaked throughout it. Harry inhales deeply, enjoying the crisp, fresh air before Draco’s voice draws him back to reality.

“We’ve work to do, Harry.” His voice is entirely lacking the hard edges of _Auror Malfoy._ “The honeymoon will have to wait,” he jokes.

Harry smiles at him, trying not to imagine just what it would be like to be here in a place like this with Draco under any other circumstances.

Draco’s fingers trace the bones up the back of Harry’s hand before encircling his wrist. “I guess we have other things to talk about once this is over, too.”

“Seems so,” says Harry. He swallows hard around the lump in his throat.

“Better get to it, then. The sooner the better.”

Harry follows Draco to the edge of the cliff where he crouches down to observe their surroundings. It isn’t actually a rocky shore below them, but a vast, sandy beach twenty feet down.

“We’re on the South Shore. Mostly beach, but this whole area here is normally covered in water,” Draco says. “Flanning has a team north of here, in Somerset Village, and there are local Aurors all over the rest of Bermuda watching for him.”

Harry and Draco explore the island for the better part of an hour with no signs of Arbius anywhere. Draco's typically confidant demeanour seems to be waning as the day carries on. There's been no word from Flanning or the other teams, and they're beginning to wonder if Arbius didn't just abandon his plan altogether. Draco continues to explain the case in greater detail to Harry, probably because he feels he needs to be doing _something_ in order to be productively moving forward. Harry again finds himself admiring the conviction with which Draco handles his job, and wonders if he's just as passionate in other aspects of his life. A warm tingle travels up his spine when he allows himself a moment to reflect on the kiss of Saturday night.

 _Yes_ , he thinks. _Draco is definitely passionate about other things_.

Another warm tingle prickles over Harry's skin, only this time he knows it isn't from thoughts of Draco. He recognises it to be a surge of magical energy in the air around him. Reaching his arm out, he stops his partner from walking farther.

"Did you feel that?" he whispers, as he quickly scans the area around them.

"What was it?" Draco asks, holding his wand at the ready as he, too, searches the field.

"Magical energy. I think it came from over there, against that cliff."

Keeping low to the ground, Harry and Draco creep quietly through the trees. There’s an opening in the cliff side, a small cave with a crystal clear stream trickling out and winding its way to the ocean.

“ _Revelio,”_ Draco whispers. A sheer veil of pale blue light emanates from the tip of his wand. “Useless,” he says. “He’s set wards. Send a Patronus to Flanning. I’m going in.”

“The fuck you are. Not without me,” Harry replies, but Draco has already stepped into the cave.

Harry quickly sends off his Patronus and rushes in after him, casting _Lumos_ as he does. The cave seems small, but there, at the back, Harry sees several openings leading off of the main entrance. He can’t help but roll his eyes, having known something stupid and cliché like this would come up.

It’s a bad idea to separate—it’s _always_ a bad idea to separate—but they haven’t got much of a choice. After a brief and silent but animated conversation of hand gestures and facial expressions that Harry knows are only discernable to the two of them, they go their separate ways.

Harry has to remind himself that Draco is a big boy, and perfectly capable of handling any trouble he may encounter. Still, the sooner this is over, the better.

He must be walking for a good fifteen minutes before he reaches a low spot in the cave. Harry crouches down, noticing a soft green light at the other end. The ground beneath him is moist and squashy as Harry crawls through the tunnel. It stinks of stagnant saltwater and Harry has to hold his breath to keep from vomiting. He hears voices as he reaches the other side. There, through the opening, Harry spots Draco standing in the centre, wand aimed at Arbius. He slips out of the crawlspace, drawing his own wand.

“You’ll be sorry, you bleedin’ idiot. ‘m tellin’ yeh, he ain’t foolin’ around,” Arbius says, neither of them noticing Harry yet.

“Yeah,” Draco says. “We’ll take care of him, too. Just give me your wand.”

Harry has no idea what they’re talking about, but from what it sounds like, Arbius isn’t working alone.

“Do I look barmy to you?” he asks.

 _”Expelliarmus!”_ Harry’s disarming spell sizzles out as it hits what appears to be a strong barrier that Arbius has in place.

He looks questioningly at Draco who rolls his eyes.

“Thank you, Potter. I hadn’t thought of that,” Draco says.

Glaring at his partner, Harry reaches even deeper into his arsenal, pulling forth the heightened magic he has within. With another swish of his wand, a loud crack sounds and the barrier dissolves.

There’s no time for any of them to be surprised; everything happens so fast.

Arbius shouts, and fires a spell that ricochets off of the walls, causing rocks to tumble down. Draco quickly casts a binding spell, but just as he does, Arbius fires a hex at him. Harry doesn't hear the words used over the echoing shouts and clattering rocks, but the hum of magic in the air suggests something more sinister than they had anticipated.

 _"Protego!"_ Harry shouts, throwing a shield charm around his partner just as the hex hits him, but as Draco drops to the ground entirely limp, Harry fears the worst.

The old man’s wand clatters to the floor as the binds take hold.

“What spell did you use?" Harry shouts, but Arbius doesn't answer. The bind that Draco put him in is holding, so Harry knows his partner isn't dead, but he still can't find his own breath as he rushes across the cavern to reach him. There's blood trickling down the side of Draco's head, staining blond strands a gruesome crimson that makes Harry's stomach roil.

"What the fuck spell did you use?!" he yells again, his voice unrecognisable even to himself in this state of rage.

"Let me go and maybe I'll tell you b'fore it's too late."

The old man cowers as Harry stalks over to him. He raises his wand, fully prepared to use whatever means necessary to make him talk, but suddenly another surge of magic buzzes through the air.

Arbius smiles knowingly.

Harry whips around, searching for the source of the magic. A loud pop sounds and there, just beside Draco, stands Garin Lynch, and a hired house-elf.

“You?” Harry says, eyes wide with shock. “What the fuck?”

Lynch looks down at Draco, shaking his head as if he’s disappointed. “I didn’t want to involve you, Harry, but you’ve certainly just made my task a little bit easier. Our way would have probably worked fine, but with a blood descendant of the witch of Endor, now I have a direct link into Atlantis.”

Harry barely has time to register his words before a flash of green is streaking toward him. He sees the house-elf Disapparate away with both Lynch and Draco just as the Killing Curse hits Harry’s projected barrier.

It takes but a moment for him to come back to his senses and realise what’s happened. Harry reinforces the bonds on Arbius as he rushes across the cavern. He knows Lynch is still close by; he can’t leave the third point of The Devil’s Triangle when he’s so close to accomplishing what he’s set out to do.

Spells reveal nothing, and Harry is forced to search the dank cave the Muggle way. He assumes the elf is helping Lynch with the magical obstructions; Harry is certain that his own magic would be able to penetrate them otherwise.

Harry knows he’s racing against time. He isn’t sure what Lynch plans to do to Draco, but he has to assume the worst. After all, as Draco always says, people are bad.

Finally, as Harry turns a corner into another deep cavern, he’s met with the sound of shouting and strange, unnerving laughter. Lynch's voice echoes throughout the cavern distorting Harry's perception of which direction it's coming from.

The smell of mildew and decay bring forth memories that Harry would much rather forget. His stomach roils as his mind conjures images of twisted, pale inferi climbing out of the water. Heart hammering erratically behind his ribs, Harry pushes away the thought and presses forward, making his way down yet another tunnel.

It isn't long before he comes to a wide clearing in the cave; emerald pools illuminated from beneath the water. He breathes a sigh of relief when he sees Draco, still unconscious, but alive, at the other side. He’s covered in blood and some small part of Harry knows that it’s from the head injury and no new harm has been done to him. Yet.

“Oh good!” exclaims Lynch when he spots Harry. “I was starting to regret killing you. Should have known that curse wouldn’t work on the Great Harry Potter.”

Harry tries disarming the man again to no avail. Lynch laughs maniacally.

“You’re ruining the plan, Harry.”

“What the fuck are you on about, Lynch. You’re going through an awful lot of trouble racking up a list of charges just to open Atlantis. You sure it’s worth it?”

“Oh, Harry. Of course it’s worth it. I’m going to start a whole new world there.” His tone is cool and matter-of-fact.

Harry’s eyes flick from Lynch to Draco. The man is clearly off his nut and Harry isn’t sure how much longer it’ll take for Flanning and the others to find them. As long as Lynch doesn’t physically harm him, Draco should be fine, though. Harry can still feel the effects of his shield charm around his partner.

Lynch doesn’t miss Harry’s look of concern. He cocks his head to the side, an exaggerated expression of sympathy on his face.

“Aww...I hope he isn’t too important to you.”

Anger boils hot in Harry’s veins. “Let him go, Lynch.”

The man shakes his head. “I can’t. See, I need his blood to open the gates. His lineage goes straight back to the first occupants of Atlantis, Harry. I’d bring him along, too, if it weren’t for his terrible past. People like him can’t be helped. But you? You could come to this new world with me. We could build it together. Create the perfect society, cleansing people of all their inner demons before bringing them into the New World! It will be magnificent. Flawless!"

Harry is taken aback. He realises he  hasn’t been paying enough attention to this case, but even if he had been, he never would have guessed the small burglaries were linked to some psychotic, would-be tyrant with plans for world domination.

"Who's to say that your idea of perfect is right, Lynch? Everyone sees things differently. Diversity and balance: it's what makes life interesting."

"No, Potter." Lynch shakes his head and exhaled a frustrated breath. Harry can see the indentation where his wand is pressed into Draco's neck. "You don't understand," he continues. "Without the vile people like this, we could live in utter peace and harmony. A flawless utopian society, just the way it was meant to be."

The man's lip twitches, his voice quavering with lack of control and Harry fears for Draco's safety now more than ever.

"Yeah, well, there's a fine line between utopia and _dystopia_ , and I think you're pissing all over it."

A bone-chilling cackle escapes Lynch's throat, sending a shudder up Harry's spine.

"As you said, Mr Potter, difference in opinion."

"You're fucking barmy, Lynch. Let him go!"

The force of Harry's shout combined with his emanating magic sends a ripple through the air.

“Join me, Harry,” Lynch says, ignoring Harry’s demand. “Think of the possibilities.”

Harry silently spreads his magic out around him, searching for debilities in Lynch's defence shield. There's no give in any part of it. No weak spots for his magic to break through. He knows what he has to do. Casting one long glance at Draco, fear bubbles up inside him. He knows firsthand the consequences of second guessing his instincts and so, with some difficulty, he pushes all the self-doubt and insecurity back down and focuses entirely on the situation at hand.

Without a second thought, Harry lunges forward, dropping his wand and grabbing Lynch with both hands. The two of them slam back against the ground, Harry landing on top of the other man. He presses his forearm to Lynch’s throat, cutting off his oxygen as he struggles with his other hand to take the wand from him.

Lynch grips it tightly, thrashing his head as he tries to catch his breath. His other hand is scratching and clawing at Harry frantically until finally his fist connects with Harry’s jaw.

The tang of blood fills Harry’s mouth, only aiding to fuel his rage. Both of them still holding Lynch’s wand, Harry shifts his weight to the side. Drawing his own fist up and landing a forceful hit to Lynch’s mouth.

Lynch gasps, taking in great, heaving breaths of air as he continues to struggle erratically. Harry presses his thumb between the tendons in Lynch’s wrist in another attempt to get him to drop his wand. He struggles with Lynch’s other arm, trying to pin him, but Lynch throws his weight, rolling them to the side and pinning Harry’s wrist instead.

There’s blood dripping from Lynch’s mouth, but the psychotic man smiles in spite of it. Harry brings his knee up for leverage, but just as he seems to be regaining control, Lynch receives a kick to the side of his head, sending blood splattering all over Harry as he’s knocked to the ground beside him.

 Harry looks up, blinking to try and focus without his glasses. Draco’s standing there with his hand on his head and a pissed off scowl on his face.

“Where the fuck is that house-elf?” he asks.

They hear a squeaky whimper-slash-sob, followed by a _pop_ as the elf disappears, taking her magic along with her.

Harry sits up, wiping the blood from his face and breathing hard. He quickly snatches Lynch’s wand away while the man is unconscious.

Draco helps him to his feet, looking a bit dazed and out of it, Harry assumes—hopes— from the head injury. As Draco stumbles backwards a bit, Harry catches him by the arm.

“Do you know what spell Arbius hit you with?” he asks, but Draco doesn’t have time to answer.

He pushes Harry by the shoulder, shoving him out of the way. As Harry turns, he sees Lynch, smiling his bloody grin as he aims Harry’s wand at Draco.

“Fuck you,” Harry says, raising Lynch’s wand before the other man has a chance to speak the words on his tongue. _“Avada Kedavra!”_

The man drops to the ground with a heavy _thump,_ eyes glassy and vacant.

"I don't think 'Fuck You' is actually a spell, Potter, but nicely done."

.

.

.

Arbius is still bound in the first cavern when Draco and Harry make their way back through to him. Harry’s adrenaline is still surging and his thoughts are a tangled mess of anger and determination.

“What fucking spell did you use on Draco?” he asks the old man again.

Arbius scowls and spits at Harry.

In no mood to be fucked with, Harry aims his wand at the man. “Cru–”

“–Potter!” Draco interrupts, just in time.

“What? You said to be more brutal and to stop using juvenile defences!”

“And _now_ you chose to listen to me? He’s bound and unarmed. An Unforgivable is still an Unforgivable no matter your background credentials, you...twat-nugget.” Draco’s eyes are wide with shock, and if the situation weren’t so serious, Harry would be tempted to laugh. Instead, he shouts back, matching Draco’s tone.

“Well, make up your bloody mind! Sadistically mean, or...fluffy...bunny _nice?”_

“Do I get a vote in this?” Arbius asks.

“Shut it!” Draco shouts at the man, then turns an angry gaze back toward Harry. “So, there’s no in between then. It’s all or nothing with you, is it?”

 _Fuck it,_ Harry thinks, _it really_ is _all or nothing._ And with that, he closes the distance between himself and Draco. Grabbing his partner by the front of his bloody, ripped shirt, Harry pulls him into a pressing kiss.

"What the bleeding fuck is going on here?" The voice of their commanding Auror draws them apart.

“Flanning,” Draco calls. “Just in time for all the action. Way to go.”

After giving Flanning and his team of Aurors the brief but thorough recount of what happened, Harry hastens to be dismissed to take Draco to a hospital.

“He’s been hit by some hex,” he says.

“I have not. I’m not going to another hospital,” Draco demands. The mediwitches who came in with the group of local Aurors are buzzing around him, clearing the blood and checking for missed injuries.

“Arbius hit him with something, but I didn’t hear what. Could be something slow acting, so we need to have him looked over by a healer right away.”

“He didn’t hit me with anything, Harry.” Draco says as the mediwitch heals his head wound. “It was his misfire and your shouty-angry- _super_ -magic that knocked a rock onto my fucking head.”

Harry can’t help but laugh. Weak and exhausted, he makes his way over to Draco again, wrapping his arms around him and entirely disregarding the presence of the ten other people around them.

“Oh, god,” he says, resting his head on Draco’s shoulder. “I hate this fucking job.”

Draco laughs, rubbing a hand up Harry’s back. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Harry, but aside from today, you’re sort of crap at it anyway.”

“Good,” Harry replies. “Makes it easier to quit.”

.

.

.

Harry sits at his new desk, scribbling notes into his planner around the schedule his assistant has inked in for him. Although he still has a desk and a stack of paperwork to do, working from home on his own time is much different than the job he recently left. For one thing, Harry makes all the rules for himself, which he quite likes. And another, although he doesn’t get to spend 8 hours a day with Draco, the times they do see each other are much more appreciated than sharing paperwork and caseloads.

The combination of Ministry reports following the Atlantis case, and Harry buying out Terrortours on Diagon Alley to start his own business of magical travelling tours, have required the two of them to back away from each other a little, but Harry doesn’t plan on letting that deter him for long. Draco still helps Harry with the opening of Atlantis when needed, but with Harry’s level of magic, Draco’s blood isn’t really required.

Despite the barman’s betrayal, Harry still finds the same sense of calm and relaxation whenever he steps foot into Bimini, and he finds himself oddly grateful that the name remained even after the pub’s ownership passed on to Maddy. They still spend time together at there, and they still share plenty of perfect kisses. Seamus and Pansy seem to have attached themselves to one another, so with the rest of the group paired off, but still happily together every Friday night, no one seems to notice the elevated sexual tension between Harry and Draco.

With a soft knock, Draco steps into the room and pushes the door shut behind him. He stands there silently, watching Harry with a cool confidence that sends a jolt of desire straight to his cock.

“Hey,” Harry says, finally finding his voice. “I’m just trying to finish this up, and then we can head out.”

Draco’s only response is a suggestive smile as he stands there looking somehow more incredible than Harry has ever seen him. His shirt is open exposing the pale, smooth muscles of his chest and Harry swallows down a moan as he watches Draco drag the tips of his fingers down to his waistband.

The crisp sound of leather sliding through fabric as Draco removes his belt nearly causes Harry to come from five metres away.

Draco leans against the wall on the other side of the room, eyes dark with lust.

"So, I was thinking," he manages to say as he fingers the button of his trousers. "It’s been nearly two months since we’ve worked together, and, now that the Great Harry Potter is no longer owned by the Ministry..." There's a soft tick of each individual tooth of Draco's zip coming undone as he slowly slides it down. "Maybe you could be mine instead," he finishes, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his trousers and pants and dragging them down over his hips.

Harry thinks (when he actually has time to do so later) that he must have Apparated across the room, because suddenly he's there, kissing Draco, tasting and touching and he knows there's no way any human—Muggle _or_ wizard—could move that quickly without the use of magic.

He barely has the presence of mind to acknowledge the fact that Draco's just asked him to be _his._ He would laugh if it was funny, but instead it hurts. He wants that so badly that there's an actual physical pain accompanying the thought.

Harry simply nods before pressing another open-mouthed kiss to Draco's neck. His skin is warm and sweet against Harry's tongue, but nothing is more delicious than the taste of Draco's mouth.  
Harry kisses him deeply, catching the moan that falls from his lips as their hips press together.

Reaching down between them, Draco drags his hand over the bulge in Harry’s trousers. The warm friction on his straining cock feels so damn good, even through the layers of fabric, that it causes Harry’s eyes flutter closed for a moment.

Without breaking their kiss, Harry slides his hands down to Draco’s hips, pulling him forward and rubbing his cock against Draco’s before moving his hands down farther. Harry pushes Draco’s trousers down all the way and wraps his fingers around the long, smooth cock.

As Draco whimpers into the kiss, Harry is sure he can actually taste the sparks of desire on his tongue; delicious and warm and full of need. Draco’s fingers caress the sliver of exposed skin where Harry’s shirt has raised, causing them both to moan into each other’s mouths. His fingers travel delicately up Harry’s sides and back down again, twisting into the hem of his shirt.

 _Oh, fuck,_ Harry thinks. _This is really going to happen._

Draco pulls back from the kiss only long enough to lift Harry’s shirt up over his head. He twists his fingers into Harry’s hair as his other hand works diligently to remove Harry’s trousers.

Harry sighs in relief as he steps out of them, kicking them to the side. He wonders briefly if his office is the best place for this to happen for the first time. Kissing and licking the skin of Draco’s neck, Harry shifts his hips, sliding their hard cocks together once more.

“Bedroom,” he says, biting gently on Draco’s ear.

“No,” Draco whispers. “Like this.” Shifting his weight, he lifts one leg, wrapping it up over Harry’s hip.

Harry quirks a smile, remembering the things Pansy said in the bar. He nods.

 _Anything,_ his inner voice supplies. _Any way you want me, as long as you want me._

Harry caresses the thigh that’s wrapped around him as his tongue slides against Draco’s. One hand comes up to curl round the back of Draco’s neck, guiding him along in the kiss. The taste of Draco is intoxicating, dizzying, and Harry feels the force of it deep within, curling outward through his body.

How many nights has he dreamt of this, lying in his bed as he gazes out the window into the starlit sky? How many times has he brought himself off while imagining it was Draco’s touch instead? Harry had fallen for his partner with the same intensity and passion that mirrors Draco’s own determination in life, and suddenly Harry realises that perhaps _that’s_ the thing that he’s meant to be good at; loving this beautiful, strong man.

Harry’s hand traverses every inch of Draco’s body that he can reach, relishing the feel of smooth, warm skin and savouring the closeness. The hard, heavy feel of his cock causes Harry to drop his head to Draco’s shoulder again, watching as his own fingers stroke and touch and explore. He rolls Draco’s balls gently in his hand before moving his fingertips to the sensitive skin just behind them. With a groan, Draco kisses Harry more deeply, his hands sliding across the muscles of his shoulders.

Harry is still somewhat shocked and awe-struck that this is really happening, but the feel of Draco’s teeth scraping against his neck and jaw line are definite proof that he isn’t dreaming.

With a whispered spell, Harry slicks his fingers and draws teasing circles around Draco’s entrance. He gently kisses Draco’s neck and slowly pushes one finger into him. The other man seems to go weak as he slides down the wall a bit and moans in pleasure. Harry catches him around the waist with one arm, holding him steady as he adds another finger. The slow, languorous strokes are each chased by quiet gasps and muffled whispers. Draco wraps his arms around Harry’s neck, bringing their mouths together in a deep, passionate kiss.

With his shoulders pressed against the wall, Draco writhes and shifts his hips as if asking for more. Harry takes this as a sign that it’s okay to proceed. Withdrawing his fingers from Draco’s tight heat, he coaxes Draco’s other leg up around his waist. Harry enjoys the feel of Draco’s weight against him almost as much as the feel of his muscled legs wrapped around him.

 With slick fingers, Harry strokes his own cock, coating it in the oil. He lines himself up with Draco’s entrance and, with a groan, Harry rolls his hips forward as Draco sinks down onto him. Draco’s fingers dig into Harry’s shoulders as his back arches away from the wall. Eyes hooded and lips parted, he drops his head back and lets out a shaky, breathy sigh. The intense sensation of being inside him finally is almost too much. Harry bites his lip, bracing one hand more firmly against the wall.

He kisses his lips, sucking gently on his tongue as he allows Draco’s body a moment to adjust to the feel of him. He seems to be holding his breath as he rests his forehead against Harry’s. Harry feels the warmth of his sigh fan out over his lips before Draco begins to move finally.

Soft noises of pleasure mingle in the air between them as Harry slides in and out, slowly at first, before picking up the tempo. The grip of Draco’s body, so tight around him, feels so fucking wonderful that Harry nearly loses himself in the sensation.

He loops one arm under Draco’s knee, bringing himself even deeper. Harry knows his arms and legs will be sore tomorrow,—not as sore as Draco’s arse, he’s sure—but oh _fuck_ is it ever worth it.

Pressing his shoulders to the wall for leverage, Draco aids the movements as Harry thrusts into him. Even in his dreams, he couldn’t have imagined this. He watches Draco’s face for any signs of discomfort, but all he sees are expressions of pure pleasure. Draco’s eyes slide open, lust-blown pupils ringed by grey, locking on Harry’s and causing heat to pool in his belly.

 _So good. So fucking perfect,_ he thinks. Leaning forward, Harry mouths the hollow of Draco’s throat with moist, kiss-swollen lips. His skin sparks everywhere that Draco is touching him: his fingers on Harry’s shoulders, his leg around Harry’s waist, his cock sliding up and down the sweat-slick muscles of Harry’s stomach.

“Fuck,” Harry hisses as he leans back slightly, looking down at the sight. He watches, mesmerised as Draco brings his hand down to grip his own cock. _“Fuck,”_ Harry repeats, unable to think of anything else.

He wants to kiss Draco again, taste the moans coming from him as he strokes himself and rides Harry’s, but he can’t take his eyes off of those long, gorgeous fingers as Draco works to bring himself off. He watches Draco’s thumb circle the tip of his cock, collecting the moisture there and spreading it around, each gentle tug pulls back the delicate foreskin, giving Harry a fantastic glimpse of the pink, moist head. He’s overwhelmed with the desire to taste him, but he knows he can’t stop what he’s doing.

Harry finally manages to tear his eyes away when Draco slides a hand around the back of his neck, pulling Harry into a slow kiss. He groans against Harry’s tongue as his muscles tense, squeezing Harry from the inside and out.

Harry looks down again on time to watch the come pulsing from Draco’s cock, coating his stomach and hand. He’s never seen anything so fucking beautiful in his life, and he can only hope that his next move won’t scare him away. Harry takes Draco by the wrist, bringing his hand up to Harry’s lips.

“Oh god,” Draco breathes, dropping his head back against the wall as he watches Harry suck the come off of his fingers. His body continues to grip as the intensity of Harry’s orgasm coils within, causing his back to arch as he comes, the taste of Draco sweet on his tongue.

Their mutual cries and moans of pleasure segue into quiet gasps as the bliss of orgasm ebbs away slowly. Harry's knees are weak and he's grateful beyond reason when Draco slides off of him and drops his feet to the floor, relieving Harry of his burden.

“We should have done that years ago,” Draco says, surprising him when he slips his tongue into Harry’s mouth and kisses him urgently, as if he’s anxious to taste himself on Harry’s tongue.

When they break the kiss, Harry’s gaze drops. The last thing he wanted for their first time together was for Draco to get the impression that Harry is some sort of sexual deviant.

“You’re fucking amazing,” Draco says, drawing Harry’s attention back to his eyes. He smiles and shakes his head. “You just thoroughly fucked me into this wall here and now you’re acting like you’re shy?”

Harry’s head falls forward to Draco’s shoulder again, shaking with laughter. They’re sticky and sweaty and naked in Harry’s office, and he hasn’t been this happy in his entire life. He doesn’t really know where the sudden burst of insecurity came from other than the fact that he’s been in love with Draco for so long that the idea of this actually ever happening became more like an unattainable fantasy.

“We should get cleaned up,” Draco says when finally his own laughter subsides. “The group is expecting us at Bimini tonight.”

Harry shakes his head against Draco’s shoulder. “No,” he mumbles.

“No?”

“I’ve waited too long,” he says. “You’re mine tonight. I’m not sharing you.”

“Just tonight?” Draco asks. “Because I _do_ have vacation time coming up, you know. And, since I was concussed throughout our last trip together, I think you owe me another.”

“Definitely,” Harry replies, knowing exactly where they can go together.

“I think I’ll take you up on that bedroom thing now.” Draco gently pushes Harry back, taking his hand and pulling him out of the room.

There’s still a small, barely noticeable ache in his heart even now that he has Draco, and Harry thinks that perhaps it will always be there as a reminder of the journey. 

 


End file.
